


Moments In Time

by Adelinea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Childhood, Family Secrets, Insanity, M/M, Nostalgia, Special Powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:36:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adelinea/pseuds/Adelinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every child to be born in the Holmes family has had a certain power that allowed them to show others what they could not see. The only thing they must pay in return for this gift is a small toll, one that people usually take advantage of. Sherlock Holmes's power is that of his mind. All he has to do to let others see is give them a kiss on the lips. But his payment? Well, I'll let you deduce that for yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Let me take you on a journey to Sherlock Holmes’s very much physical mind and soul, all the while investigating a certain topic that Sherlock has never quite been able to figure out. But as we wander through the old paths of remembrance and the forbidden memories they harbour, remember these things: a thought is just a thought until someone else hears it, a secret is just a secret until someone else knows it, and a feeling is just a feeling until someone else shares it.

He took a tentative step towards his heart and the soles of his shoes padded silently against the dirt. The world held its breath and the air turned thick as he stood tall and taciturn. Time slowed. Reaching out a hand, the man got as close as he dared to a glowing ball floating in front of him.

Sparks weaved in, out, and around the ball to create a cocoon of tiny shooting stars. Just as big as his fist, he could’ve held it in his hand. There was no substance, it was simply light. Pulsing, it illuminated his face bouncing off the dark walls to cast a golden glow. The ball pulsed, weak but steadfast.

Letting his fingers touch the barest edge of the light, memories flooded his mind. The light met his fingertips and nostalgia came of the days before this glowing ball had come to be locked up in this dark dungeon. Before the man forced to teach himself not to feel.

Before the light in front of him that was his heart had been forced to grow cold.

A desperate ache began to form, seeping in slowly and caressing his heart. Hands of desire held the man’s soul, carefully turning it around in its palm, feeling the light pulse. Then with one swift paroxysm, desperation interlocked its fingers and crushed the heart, spewing the pine and longing and grief everywhere.

That light was the chasm inside the man, a great abyss separating his head from his heart.

With red-rimmed eyes and hands of the past clawing at his back, he forcefully pulled his hand and gaze away from the ball. He walked out of the room and closed the steel door. A single ray of the man’s heart spilled out of a miniscule crack at his feet and he walked away without noticing.

The crack remained.

Up the spiral staircase, he took two steps at a time, tediously climbing eight flights of stairs to the surface.

He breathed.

Fresh air poured into his lungs when the hatch opened and the man breathed. He climbed out of his underground prison and into the tall meadow grasses.  

A keyhole on the hatch looked at the man mockingly and seemed to dare him to lock it up. He refused to look directly at it. Reaching under his shirt and pulling on a leather cord that hung around his neck, the man turned the bronze key and nodded with satisfaction as the click sounded.

Wind whipped his face sharply and Sherlock Holmes walked out of his mind.

\--

_Have you ever thought of the notion of love, Sherlock?_

_It’s odd, because so many have tried to describe this ‘love’, but all of them have failed. It seems that love is something so complicated that can’t be described. God, people can be so pompous sometimes. Thinking of themselves as philosophers and giving it labels like ‘beautiful’ or ‘amazing’. People are stupid. Jesus Christ, contrary to popular belief, they’re not the great intelligence of the universe._

_But the real question is this: What does love even mean? It’s somewhat of a paradox because you can say it’s simple, though it’s not. Kind love shows itself all around, yet you know that sometimes it tears people apart. Delusional smiles make it so much easier to say that love is simple and wonderful. But no, it’s not at all that simple or wonderful._

_So how to answer the question?_

_I have no fucking idea._

_Sorry Sherlock, but this is the area that our family has never been particularly good at explaining. The only thing I can tell you about love is that it’s two ends of the spectrum._

_But you know that already. It’s a fairly simple deduction, really._

Caring is not an advantage _. Mycroft had said. From Auntie Violet, in fact. Did you know that?_

_No, I shouldn’t expect you to. But you were the first to hear the harsh meaning lying underneath those innocent words. What happened? Were those words the ones to teach you to build a wall around your heart or did something happen after I died?_

_How you managed to actually lock up your heart I don’t even want to know. Your heart is a living, beating organ that holds your innermost secrets and guilty pleasures and your favourite colour and the violin. You can’t keep so much of yourself tucked away in the corner of your soul; it leaves you cold and mechanical. I can’t let that happen to my baby brother._

_Damn, you even have a prison with a lock and key and that is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard of._

_And then you fucking threw the key to the padlock in the fucking Thames you created in your fucking mind. Why. The. Fucking. Hell. Would. You. Do. That. Don’t bother pretending, I know that you often hear it crying out to be able to have and hold someone. To have someone for yourself and to let them in. To not face this world alone._

_I fucking lived fucking eight years of my fucking pathetic life and then I fucking died._

_So Sherlock Holmes, my baby brother, don’t you dare do this to yourself. Get off your miserable arse and stop hurting. You deserve it._

_I’m only saying (writing) all this because of that fateful afternoon at Bart’s that gave your heart just enough strength to try and force its way out (again)._

_I’ve been stuck in your mind because you loved me so much that a piece of my soul had sewn itself into you. Did it really have to be your brain? I know that fourteen years of me learning swear words with you and swearing at you isn’t as enjoyable as you hoped it to be when I left. Living my life in your brain. Heh. We are a seriously messed up family._

_Okay, back to business._

_Back to Mr. Dr. John H. Watson._

_I like him. He’s the first in a while to look past your shell (exoskeleton) and see (oh god I’m sorry I’m laughing at you having an exoskeleton haha) that you actually had substance beneath your coldness._

_I died, but Mycroft had been warning you since long ago not to become attached. Not to relive those depressing days. But he_ is _your friend, Sherlock. You have subconsciously let him in and you think that it’s alright because you keep denying it and antagonizing him every once in a while to make him hate you for like a day. But only a day and then he’s back._

_Guilty pleasures. I never thought my baby brother would have one of those._

_It’s weird but enjoyable that he laughs with you and gets Chinese takeout in the middle of the night with you and giggles with you at how funny Anderson looks even though the whole time he’s telling you to stop. And he takes care of you._

_I know you relish having someone there, Sherlock. I do._

_But you’ve resisted others’ advances before so why is it him? Why him? Why now?_

“Sherlock?” A voice echoed through the marble floors and stone statues of an ancient castle.

The detective looked up and the intense concentration on the parchment was lost. He frowned slightly and hastily rolled the battered, yellowing scroll he had been reading to place it delicately into a wooden chest at the base of his feet. The person writing his life story to him on that paper was not deleted, but forgotten as he quickly grabbed the old key that presented itself on the small table next to him and locked the large box up.

“Sherlock?” The voice was louder, more earnest.

Sherlock hurriedly crossed the room and shut the door behind him as he walked through the impressive foyer and out towards the entrance of his Mind Palace.

“Sherlock.” It was now said in exasperation, “Sherlock. You’re not even listening to me.”

Footsteps clacked neatly down the elegantly tiled floors in long strides as the detective rolled his eyes towards the voice.

A sigh vibrated through the detective’s castle, “Alright, I give up.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance but quickened his pace as he reached the towering, double oak entry doors of his palace. He pushed them open with a gentle but strong push of his leather covered hands and the fresh air came upon him.

Closing the door behind him, Sherlock breathed in the sweet scent of pine needles all around as the sun beat down warmly on his shoulders. The well-worn path of dirt lead into a forest full of birch and pine and cascara trees swirling in a mass of leaves around the trail, creating a canopy of green and gold above the detective.

Sherlock walked, watching streaks of sun fall between the spaces of leaves and specks of blue. Hands by his side and coat collar turned up, Sherlock Holmes was desperate return to his stone palace and continue reading. Furrowing his eyebrows, the detective thought. His brother had written down an inquiry about love, using his own life story as the main subject. He found the parchment only today, the words having seemed to magically appeared. His brother had never written before… it seemed there was something immensely wrong.

But John was calling him. And Sherlock always answered John.

Just keep your eyes on the sky, and walk. That’s how he always got out. There was no door, no ‘Alice In Wonderland Hole’, it was just like walking through fog. One moment he’d be staring up at the sun, the next he’d be awake in bed or lying on the sofa, hours having already gone by.

There it was.

The wispy cirrostratus clouds and painted blue sky faded away into the mellow undertones of 221B. Smooth leather beneath his back and cool air against Sherlock’s bare feet became apparent as he opened his eyes to blink away the rush of exhilaration. The warm autumn sun of his mind had gradually receded away to be replaced with the glow of a floor lamp creeping in through the edges of his eyes. Sherlock slowly craned his neck to look out the window, seeing a couple stars twinkling in the darkening night sky.

So, he’d been out for roughly two hours.

Not that bad. Not long enough for John to get worried, so what did he want?

Still letting the familiar colors of his and John’s flat ease into his vision, Sherlock sat up on the sofa where he had been moments before with his hands steepled under his chin.

“John?”

The detective glanced around. His flatmate wasn’t sitting in the chair tapping away at his laptop where Sherlock had left him a couple hours ago, nor was he in the kitchen fixing a cup of tea.

“John?” Sherlock said, a little louder this time.

When he was met with silence again, Sherlock swung his terribly long legs across the sofa and walked with silent footsteps towards the staircase that lead to John’s upstairs bedroom. His gaze flickered over the steps in a second and with that Sherlock tiptoed back the way he came to settle on the sofa and take care of some unfinished business. John was up in his room. He had simply wanted to tell Sherlock to have a good night.

As Sherlock eased back down into his previous position, he realized something. It was only nine o’clock, and regular people did not go to sleep this early. Why would John be going to bed?

Interesting. Perhaps this could turn into a human behavior experiment.

“John.”

A slight rustle came from the room upstairs but Sherlock’s flatmate didn’t reply.

“John.” He said again, a little louder.

No movement this time, and still no answer.

Sherlock looked around. Cotton strands caught on the corner of the kitchen table, so he was wearing that hideous cream jumper. A plate of cold pasta left on the counter for Sherlock, no takeout then, John had cooked dinner himself tonight. The plates still in the sink, meaning either John had been too lazy or too tired to wash them. No, it wasn’t laziness, so John was definitely tired.

But why?

All he had done today was gone to work at the surgery.

Oh.

Something happened there, something exceedingly important. He had wanted to tell Sherlock about it, but as usual the doctor picked the exact time when Sherlock had decided to visit his Mind Palace.

Oh well, if John really wanted to tell Sherlock about his experience with the man who had cried in his arms about his dead wife that had apparently triggered some emotional heartstring, then the doctor would tell him the next morning. If not, well Sherlock  could always ask about it, right?

Now, what was it that dusty, old paper was talking about again?

Ah, yes, love.

Of course. The greatest mystery of all, the one thing man had been puzzling over since the beginning of time. Since sixteen hours ago for Sherlock Holmes though. But so far he had only come to one conclusion: there was no way in hell he could solve this mystery in twenty four hours.

As the detective shifted on the sofa into a more comfortable position, he thought about the research he had already filed and stored into his Palace. Love was a complicated thing (Sherlock had admitted that to himself one hour into the investigation), though weren’t all emotions?

But one thing is for sure, one thing that everyone knows, even Sherlock.

Love is home.

Or home is love. Sherlock forgot which one it was that his mother had told him all those years ago.

But he did remember _his_ home.

Delight had soared through his family’s hearts the moment Sherlock Holmes entered this world. His brilliant mind was thought to be a blessing from the heavens. Four years of bliss and then he broke.

It was the price he had to pay that broke him.

The toll breaks everyone.

It was an extraordinary gift. The ability to transport himself and the conscience of anyone else he chose to, into his mind. And if one was so lucky, if Sherlock loved them enough, he could take a piece of their soul and preserve it in his mind. He had loved his brother immensely and so there he was: in Sherlock’s mind, writing to him. About love.

But what of the price? Well it started out as a precaution, then evolved into a death. After that there was a kiss. And then his whole world collapsed around him.

No one could’ve saw it coming. Not Mummy Holmes, not Father, not Granddad Henry, nor Aunt Violet.

His whole world. Gone in the blink of an eye.

A wave of memories crashed over Sherlock’s closed eyes and crept slyly into the corner of his heart. Images of his deceased father hunched over and a face creased with worry flooded Sherlock’s vision. His mother, now dead, gently rubbing soothing circles on his back. Granddad, smiling at him with reassurance. And his sweet aunt, his sweet, darling Auntie Violet… looking him in the eyes with reassurance as she injected a needle into his six year old arm.

No.

That was the past. The Holmeses never brought up the past. Never. It was done, gone, over with.  Another thing he had grown up with.

Sherlock gave the smallest, shaking breath a human could manage and let numbness take over his body.  Time was of the essence, but a small pit in the bottom of his stomach that was forming would definitely be a pain in the arse when he needed to concentrate. Ignoring the feeling and pushing it behind his research, Sherlock breathed in deeply and sank into his mind.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice carried through the flat and  the detective’s eyes snapped open as he growled in annoyance.

“What.”

“Did you call me?” A yell came from the upstairs bedroom.

“Yes, I called for you three minutes ago, that should have been plenty of time to respond though you proceeded to pretend as if you didn’t hear it. You changed your mind approximately six seconds ago and called down for me before you could change it again. Now, you wanted to tell me about the man who you had to comfort today, and when I didn’t reply to you the first time, you decided just now to tell me when I called _you._ ”

There was a moment of silence as Sherlock waited for John’s outburst. However, his flatmate had surprised him again with his mellow tone. 

“Christ, Sherlock, I just wanted to ask if you had eaten anything yet.” John’s voice projected through the floorboards of his bedroom.

“You know very well I haven’t.”

“Just checking.”

Sherlock didn’t reply but shut his eyes and tried once again to enter his Mind Palace and finish that damned investigation.

“Sherlock?”

“What.” This time, the detective’s tone was icy and he glared at the ceiling above him as if his eyes could pierce the plaster and tell John that he needed to think.

“You should eat.”

“No.” Sherlock’s stubbornness knew no limits.

“Well I’m coming down and making you eat something anyways.” Said the doctor.

He huffed and countered with, “Don’t announce that you’re coming down, it has absolutely no purpose.”

“What’s done is done.”

Footsteps down the stairs and into the sitting room and he winced with each clonk of John’s feet. Trying not to lash out as John stepped into the sitting room, Sherlock grimaced at the amount of noise he was making. But as if sensing Sherlock’s irritation, the detective’s flatmate stopped walking and stood silently, his gaze Sherlock could feel on his face even though his eyes were closed.

After a couple of moments of complete stillness, John said, “Sherlock, you need to eat.”

His words were softer than Sherlock had expected, gentle, and without the slightest trace of roughness around the edges. Then something happened. Something, somewhere, in the back of Sherlock’s brain someone was chanting: _Do it. Say it._ The voice beckoned and it was familiar. Like a word on the tip of your tongue. Over and over again.

 

_Do it._

_Say it._

 

Caught by surprise by his own subconscious, the detective did it. He didn’t reply to John’s statement, but rather, an unspoken question.

“Tell me about the man, John.”

Sherlock could feel the uncomfortable shifting of the doctor’s feet. “Sorry?”

“The man who cried in your arms today.”

“You…want me to tell you about him?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, well, alright then.”

Sherlock still had his eyes shut and fingers steepled under his chin, but he knew John understood exactly what he was saying. The doctor sat down in one of the leather chairs and sank into the softness of it.

“Why did that man cry, John?” Sherlock asked as soon as he had righted himself.

“Haven’t you already deduced it?” It seemed like an accusing question, though both men knew the genuineness.

“I need you to tell me.”

John looked at the detective’s head of black curls. “Why’s that?”

“I’m investigating a topic.”

“And that has to do with the man today…how?”

“It’s an investigation on love.” Sherlock said.

“Oh. Right, yeah, of course.”

“Now can you tell me why he cried?”

A pause of silence and then the words seemed to spill out of John’s mouth, as if his tongue couldn’t fathom what his mind was trying to say. “Yeah, well, he was in love. He- sorry, his name’s Daniel- well, Daniel’s wife killed herself last Sunday when he was out with a few friends at the pub. He thought she was happy, at least that’s what he told me. But what I think really broke his heart was that she left no note, there was no reason why she left. And he was only coming in because he had cut himself on some broken glass.

“It was on his arm, I only had to put in a few stitches, wasn’t too bad, but the blood we had to clean up before reminded Daniel of how pale his wife looked when he found her. He started hyperventilating and crying, and…”

John took a shuddering breath as he recalled the shattered look on Daniel’s face, “and that’s when I realized just how much of him his wife took with her when she left. That the cut on his arm wasn’t an accident, the broken bottle wasn’t an accident, he had administered it himself.”

Rubbing his temple with his fingers, he stopped there, eyebrows creased and eyes closed tightly. Sherlock, in response, opened his and turned to stare at John Watson.

“John,” The doctor looked up, “did he love his wife?” The question seemed almost innocent.

“Yes.”

The air was still as Sherlock processed the information and filed it in the room he had made in his Mind Palace for the topic of love.

“Tell me about love.” He said.

“What do you want to know?” The doctor replied quietly.

Pausing for a moment as he turned his head back towards the ceiling, the chant rumbled through Sherlock’s mind once again.

 

_Do it._

_Say it._

He did.

 

“What is love?”

John cocked his head and licked his lips absentmindedly.

“Now, let’s see. Love is the strongest of feelings, the one thing that can put people in the deepest pits of hell or make them believe in fairy tales or make them feel happiest they’ll ever be. People will do anything and everything for the person they love. Or to gain love, whichever one comes first.”

Sherlock looked at John as the definition concluded, “‘Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator’.” He recited it from memory.

The doctor met Sherlock’s eyes. “That’s exactly it. Why’d you need me to give you a description if you already have one?”

 

_Do it._

_Say it._

 

He couldn’t.

 

“Like I’ve always said, John, outside perspectives are extremely useful to me.”

 

Guilt.

 

“Could you explain to me how that relates to loving something?”

“ _Someone_.” John corrected.

“Elaborate.”

“Well, when you love someone, you will do anything for that person. You’d die before you’d let them come to harm; you’d kill for them. Love blurs everything around you but at the same time it gives you light about the person you love.”

“Is that it?” said Sherlock when John stopped talking.

“Love is simple.”

The detective nodded his head slowly. “So there is a simple definition.”

“Exactly.”

“Thank you, John. This has been very useful information.”

The conversation dissipated and as his flatmate got up from his chair with a lame excuse about needing to turn in early, and Sherlock thought about what John had said. Love is happy, love is hell, blah blah blah. But there was only one thing in their short conversation that caught the detective’s attention, and it was the fact that John was talking about loving a _person_ , not something.

The evidence was right there in front of him. There was no doubt about it.

John Watson was in love.

Sherlock Holmes just had to figure out with whom.

\--

Sherlock’s phone buzzed loudly against the wood coffee table and he reached for it from the sofa where he had been calmly lying. Midday sunlight streamed in from the windows whose curtains were thrown open, illuminating every dust particle that would have made Mrs. Hudson scream.

John was at the surgery and there was no one home but him. Glancing at the message, Sherlock frowned slightly.

 

_Car waiting for you outside Baker Street. –M_

He swung his legs off the edge of the sofa and planted his feet on the floor with a sharp tap. Crossing the sitting room to the window, the detective peered out, seeing a black car waiting on the side of the street.

_What for? –S_

Sherlock tapped a reply.

Almost immediately, his brother texted back.

_Examination. –M_

_Psychiatrist? –S_

_Yes. –M_

_Why now? –S_

_Your name in the papers along with the cases you have solved has arisen old conversation. –M_

_It’s been five years. –S_

_Since then you’ve gotten clean and started to work with New Scotland Yard, exercising the unconventional use of your brain in the least subtle way possible. –M_

_There is no need. –S_

_The choice was bringing you to a psychiatrist or surgery and I chose this. Get in the car, Sherlock. –M_

The detective clenched his teeth together in frustration and knit his eyebrows together. Five years since the scientists had examined his brain. Why now? _Why now?_

Huffing a breath of defeat, Sherlock moved away from the window and as slowly as possible, pulled on his coat and tied his scarf around his neck. Tugging on his black, leather gloves one finger at a time, the detective slipped his phone into a coat pocket and proceeded to walk down the steps.

The chauffer opened the car door when he arrived and Sherlock let himself settle in for the long, bumpy ride to wherever the idiotic scientists had made their lab.

Halfway through the journey, the great detective remembered his faithful blogger.

 

_Won’t be home until at least midnight. –SH_

Sherlock thought again.

 

_Possibly tomorrow. –SH_

_Don’t wait up. –SH_

He was looking out the car window at the blur of trees and sky when his phone buzzed.

 

_Why? –J_

Sherlock was about to reply when it vibrated again.

 

_Did Greg call for another case? I told you no more cases until you’re properly rested after the previous one. –J_

_It’s not a case. –SH_

_Then what? –J_

_Family matters. –SH_

Not strictly true, though family did constitute the smallest part of this journey. Sherlock could feel John’s hesitation on the other side of the connection.

 

_So where are you going? –J_

It came again.

 

_Do it._

_Say it._

He couldn’t.

_Not sure yet. –SH_

That was a blatant lie.

_Well stay out of trouble and don’t get yourself killed, even if it is just family. I’ve got a patient so I’ll see you tonight or tomorrow. –J_

Sherlock scoffed. Did John really believe he’d buy that? It was his lunch break for god’s sake, he couldn’t have a patient to attend to. And yes, Sherlock _did_ have a family (even if it did only constitute Mycroft), thank you very much, John. Rolling his eyes, the detective addressed the driver.

“Thirty seven minutes to?”

The chauffer didn’t even hesitate, “Precisely, Mr. Holmes.”

\--

Mycroft was waiting outside the building when Sherlock arrived. The brothers walked in and fell perfectly into step with one another without having said a single word. The elder Holmes slowed when they neared a white door at the end of the hallway and Sherlock stepped in without having so much as looked or said anything to his brother.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click and Sherlock didn’t have to see to know that Mycroft was standing outside. Not listening, but rather, keeping watch.

“Have a seat, Mr. Holmes.” A cool voice said at the back of the room, “We’re very pleased you could make it.”

He took two strides until he stood in the center of the room with his head held high and hands clasped behind his back. Sherlock didn’t look at the man sitting down.

The detective took in the space around him.

_Hardwood floor, replaced twice._

_Building: 26 years old._

_Two windows large windows with steel framing._

_White walls. Plaster._

_Bare room._

 

Mistake.

 

_Two chairs. One of them occupied._

_Antique coffee table._

 

Mistake.

 

_Rectangular, 10 by 13 meters. 15 meters tall._

 

Mistake.

 

_One way out, one way in._

 

Mistake, indeed.

 

“Which was it? The prospect of war, or the queen?”

The man hesitated. “Sorry?”

“Which did you use to blackmail my brother with?”

The man in the corner kept quiet for a moment. Without answering the question, he said again, “Please have a seat, Mr. Holmes.”

He did.

Sitting in the black leather chair, coincidentally very much like his own in 221B, Sherlock finally faced the scientist that had been brought in to examine him.

Mid forties, dark brown hair that was fashionably swept to one side, rectangular glasses that perched on a perfectly sculpted nose, and a pen in the breast pocket of his grey dress shirt. With tan skin, white teeth, green eyes, and no wife, Sherlock would’ve had him right then and there if the circumstances had been different.

But, alas, the man had dedicated his life to researching oddities of the brain and would’ve physically inspected the detective’s if he had not agreed to speak.

“So, Mr. Holmes,” He said plucking the pen out of his pocket and snatching up the clipboard on the table between them, “Let’s get started.”

“I’m going to ask you a few questions and I want you to answer accordingly.”

Sherlock’s face betrayed no emotion he felt.

Not discouraged, the man dived right in, “What do you think of when I say the word, ‘family’?”

“My brother.”

The scientist furiously scribbled down a ridiculous amount of words with an illegible scrawl on the paper.

“Do you like the taste of mint?”

The detective made no attempt to resist rolling his eyes, “I am indifferent.”

Once again, he hastily wrote down an absurd amount of ‘observations’ he had made about Sherlock liking or disliking mint.

“How many people have you loved in your lifetime?”

Sherlock looked at him for a full five seconds with his emotionless face and finally said, “Ten.”

This time, the man didn’t write anything but simply looked back at his patient.

“How many do you love now?”

The detective leaned forward and let his cold gaze wash over the man facing him.

 

_Do it._

_Say it._

He did.

“Eight.”

 

“How many of those are still living?”

 

_Do it._

_Say it._

 

 

He did.

 

 

“Two.”

 

And with that, Sherlock stood up, spun on his heel and his shoes clacked professionally as he went right out the door, passing Mycroft without a word. The car took Sherlock home and by the time he reached Baker Street it wasn’t even seven yet.

\--

“I thought you were coming home late?”

 

_Do it._

_Say it._

He couldn’t.

 

Sherlock hung his coat up on the coatrack and strode over to join John on the sofa, “Didn’t take as long as I expected.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow but didn’t question it, “Take out’s on the counter if you want some.”

“Not hungry.”

“How long has it been since you last ate, Sherlock?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Go eat something.”

The detective glowered and the doctor gave a teasing smile as Sherlock heaved himself off the sofa and towards a box of pot stickers and soy sauce.

\--

“What the bloody _fucking_ hell were you thinking, Sherlock?!” John slammed the door to 221B behind them and stormed angrily after the detective.

“I was ensuring justice and protecting the pedestrians of London.” He replied emotionlessly, sitting down at the kitchen table to finish up the experiment he had left.

“Well next time be more careful.” John’s furious tone hadn’t diminished.

“What does it matter now?” Sherlock adjusted his microscope lens, “It’s all over, why try to change what has already happened?”

“I’m just taking precautions to try and save your arse the next time you drag me into another one of your midnight chases and we _almost get killed._ ” John said, standing next to where Sherlock was sitting.

“This hardly counts as a ‘precaution’.”

“You know what, Sherlock? I just want to know one thing. What the hell goes on in your brain, huh?”

“Many things, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Of course.” John gave a mock smile that exposed his boiling rage, “Of course I wouldn’t understand. Because I’m too _stupid_ to understand anything you do. And next time you go running off after a criminal,” The doctor stared hard at the side of Sherlock’s face, “next time, I won’t follow to save your arse.”

John stood there for another moment, glaring at Sherlock’s cheek since the detective was busy looking through his microscope lens at a slide of some substance currently unknown to mankind. After a few seconds of a one-sided staring contest, John gave a barely audible growl and marched to the cabinet above the cutlery drawer where they kept the hard liquor. Pouring himself a generous glass of whiskey and banging the cabinet door, the doctor glared at the back of Sherlock’s head, hoping he could hear every curse that John was mentally throwing his way.

Then John Watson downed the whole eight ounce glass in one gulp, the fire burning down his throat felt oddly satisfying. The bottle was still open and it shook as John slammed the glass down on the countertop, provoking Sherlock to look back at him.

The detective didn’t even flinch.

_Fuck it._ John thought, and he grabbed the bottle by its neck and drank straight from it. But a couple more swallows were all he could take from that expensive whiskey before the lightheadedness got to him.

John, thinking on impulse, marched back to Sherlock’s side and glowered at him again, the left over adrenaline rushing through his veins. The doctor was about to throw his hands up in exasperation for the fact that the detective had not even looked at him, and head up to finish the night with some sleep and a bottle of whiskey when Sherlock reached a hand out tentatively and touched John’s arm with his gentle fingers. He wouldn’t have felt it through his thick woollen jumper if John hadn’t been keenly watching Sherlock’s every move.

“Thank you for your concern, John.”

Sherlock spoke softly, each word from the detective’s baritone voice seemed to vibrate in John’s ears though the mouth that said them was barely whispering.

A silent moment made time stop as John stared in bewilderment at Sherlock. Then the hand on his arm went back to the microscope and the doctor felt as if he were jerked back to reality after a dream.

“Right, well, goodnight then.” John turned around awkwardly and was aware of every squeak the floorboards made under his footsteps.

“Goodnight, John.” Sherlock said in the same soft voice.

Sherlock Holmes watched the slightly swaying, retreating back of John Watson walk through the sitting room and up the stairs to his bedroom where the detective could hear the doctor pacing restlessly.

Why did John even _want_ to know what Sherlock’s thoughts were? It’s not like anyone could understand them anyways. Sherlock himself could barely make sense of them and it was his own mind for god’s sake. Many had tried, actually. The ‘many’ including Mycroft, Mummy, and six psychiatrists (very much like the one he had recently visited) during his teenage years.

Still, none of them had come even remotely close to scratching the surface of the wall his mind had built around itself.

Sherlock was still staring at the space John had been a couple minutes ago and was dazing off when he suddenly remembered the fizzing substance he had in a vile in his hand.

Fragilely pouring a single drop of it onto a slide, Sherlock was deep in thought. _‘What the hell goes on in your brain, huh?’_ Those were John’s exact words. _Why does he want to know? I’ve given him an extraordinary amount of opportunities and subtle hints to allow him access to my thoughts, so why does he keep asking?_

The detective looked at the slide through his microscope lens.

_Besides, he wouldn’t understand anyways._

Sherlock turned the dial to inspect the substance closer.

_Twelve days ago we were in Cheshunt for a case. A man (late forties, suffering from anxiety and depression. Cause: wife left him for another man, typical) held a gun towards me (it wasn’t as if I was actually going to get hit, did John even_ see _his shaking hands?). At the hotel two hours after, John said almost the same thing._

_Cheshunt: “Let me know what you’re thinking before you go off and fuck some shite up”_

_Eighteen minutes ago: “What the bloody fucking hell were you thinking”_

_Key word: Thinking_

_Thinking (adj.) Def.: Using thought and/or judgment from the brain_

_Root word: Think_

_Think._

_Thought._

_Thoughts._

_Brain._

_Mind._

And with that Sherlock set down his equipment and lost all interest in the experiment he was currently conducting. The detective walked over to the sofa in six long strides and laid down with his head and feet propped up on either armrest.

_Mind…_

_…Mind Palace_

He closed his eyes slowly, watching the black seep in around the corners of his eyes and let himself sink into the oblivion of his mind. Sherlock Holmes stood in the middle of the birch woods with the sunlight streaming through the leaves and hitting his face like kisses of warmth.

Feeling his feet land firmly on the solid dirt path, Sherlock started to walk. He blinked his eyes into focus of his mind and admired the beautiful trees his subconscious had artfully created. His mind was truly amazing. It had imitated the crooked branches and the way the bright, green leaves fluttered softly in the wind perfectly, allowing the detective to feel the cool air mixed with sun beating gently against his back.

Sherlock continued to walk, knowing exactly where he was going and where he was going to end up. He absentmindedly looked at the familiar trees around him and relished their thin white trunks as a relic of his childhood while he tread on the dirt path. Birds sang their sweet melodies from hidden branches to each other and Sherlock felt the comforting peace of his mind.

He could see his Palace now, it was still a little ways away and-

“Sherlock?”

The detective tipped his head back towards the treetops and groaned, wanting to scream with frustration. The second time. It was the second time in three days in which John Watson had interrupted his journey into his Mind Palace. Sherlock turned around from where he was on the trail and broke into a run, muttering curses and not-so-appropriate words towards his flatmate.

As Sherlock re-entered 221B, the first thing he did was raise a fist and pound it against the leather cushions of the sofa, creating a very muffled angry sound.

“John, _please_ refrain from interrupting me while I am in my Mind Palace.”

“Notmy fault youspendso much time-” He hiccupped, “in there.” John grumbled as he stepped back into the sitting room to glare at Sherlock.

“Say what you want to say and then get out.”

John narrowed his eyes and gave a very pointed, annoyed look towards his flatmate. Red-rimmed eyes and very much slurred words, the ex-army doctor was ineffably drunk. He then proceeded to walk over to the leather armchair he usually occupied during the day and plop himself down on it heavily.

“I have somemore data for your-” Another hiccup “invesgimation you askedmeto help you out wif afewdays ago.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his drunken friend, “Go on.”

John smirked and leaned back, completely relaxed at 12:49 in the morning, the alcohol fueling his body with temporary energy.

“Itsgon take a while.”

“Every piece of evidence is worth my time.”

“Good.”

There was something different in John’s voice with that word. It was almost…reassurance. No, more like…relief…or…

“Wha I wanted tosaywas, tha love is thesameand differemt for every single person oud der.” John looked at Sherlock expectantly to see if he understood.

Resting his head awkwardly on his fist that was propped up on the armrest, John sniffled and jutted his lip out as if he were a child.

Sherlock simply looked back at his flatmate and tried not to let on that he had absolutely no idea what John Watson was talking about. But he would never let him know that. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes was actually, in fact, a marvellous actor.

The detective nodded his head as a sign for his flatmate to continue.

“I love reallydifferentfrom you, Sherrrlock” Sherlock’s eyes snapped up, “butwefeel the same love.”

John’s voice was soft, and a bit…hesitant. Even with the slurred words, he could see him almost regretting his message. Although everyone knows that alcohol is the best truth serum.

He paused, and as Sherlock waited for him to continue, the detective looked at John and the eyes told him that his flatmate was waiting for a response.

Then came the realization.

The ‘aha’ moment.

The part in the story when the protagonist understands the stakes of what is laid out in front of them.

Sherlock Holmes’s response was that based off his understanding of John Watson.

He swung his legs off the sofa gracefully and set his bare feet gently on the hardwood floor. John’s blue eyes pierced through his own. Padding across the short distance that separated him from his flatmate, Sherlock stopped right in front of John.

“Sherlock?” John looked at him in confusion.

“Have you not realized it yet, John?” Sherlock’s voice was husky and an octave lower than it usually was.

“What?”

Oh, so he hadn’t. John’s subconscious was playing out a scene for him, using instinct rather than facts.

The detective kneeled down in front of John so that his flatmate’s knees were touching his stomach he had to look up into John’s eyes. Kaleidoscope eyes matched indigo blue ones and suddenly, the world shifted just the tiniest bit, confirming Sherlock’s suspicions.

It didn’t happen to many people, no, not at all. Not many people at all realized someone was in love with them at one in the morning, but Sherlock Holmes did. Though it confused him to realize he wasn’t very flattered. The detective just hoped that he would figure it out before Mycroft stepped in and made John Watson disappear off the face of the earth.

“I have a hypothesis,” Sherlock began slowly, “about love.”

“Tell me ‘bout it.” The doctor was still looking intently into those multi-colored eyes of the detective.

“My way with words cannot describe this, so I will have to show you.”

The silence around them was deafening and John immediately sobered. It had nothing to do with any of the alcohol leaving his system.

“Alright then, show me.”

 

_Do it._

He did.

 

Without tearing his gaze from John’s, Sherlock took his flatmate’s hands in his own and interlaced their fingers, slowly rubbing small patterns on the doctor’s fingers. John allowed him to, feeling warm and fuzzy and light headed and confused and wondrously happy all at the same time though he played it off as the whiskey infiltrating his blood stream. The intimacy was almost overwhelming as Sherlock stood slowly up, pulling John with him.

The room was dark with only a floor lamp in the corner turned on, giving a soft glow around the pair. Moonlight floated in delicately from the windows that had their curtains thrown open and the stars were impossibly bright that night.

The doctor looked as if he was floating on air, the surreal atmosphere around the two men made John seem not quite…grounded. He was half-awake and everything seemed like a dream.

It’s the numbness that blankets your body and you don’t feel it until it’s gone, that trance in the middle of the night. When everyone and everything around you is silent and still, and all you want to do is lay there, staring up at the darkness of your bedroom ceiling. You don’t feel awake, nor asleep, it’s that in-between state where nothing really exists. The space where nothing really matters.

And Sherlock knew, just by looking into John’s eyes, that John would swear this had all been a hallucination of the alcohol his brain had conjured up the next morning. But for now, all that mattered was the man standing in front of him. A pulse was beating rapidly in John’s chest, and Sherlock remained utterly calm and composed.

“I’ve been reliably informed,” The detective’s voice was low and quiet.

 

_Say it._

 

He did.

 

“that people dance when they’re in love.”

John’s breathing was silent, but he felt a warm feeling crawling up his neck as he realized just how close the pair was. Words no longer felt like tar on his tongue and suddenly, John could speak. The impulse of being drunk took over.

“Would you like to dance, Sherlock?”

He smiled, “I would be honored to.”

“Music?”

He didn’t stumble.

“No.” A pause though, “Follow me.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock put his hand on John’s waist and aligned them properly. The detective stood tall with his back straight, only dipping his head slightly to get closer.

Once they were in position, he remembered. Remembered the memories that were usually tucked away in the attic of his Mind Palace, the memories of his childhood. One step forward, one step back.

An old French accent filled his head. _Now, as you’re stepping to the right, you must turn your partner with you. Yes, yes! Like that! You will always be the one leading, Mr. Holmes, so you must guide whomever you’re dancing with. Bring your partner around and waltz in a circle._

And suddenly, the silent flat became alive with hidden music. A whole symphony emerged from the air and stepped in time into the flat, playing for Sherlock and John. The orchestra’s introduction crescendo lead into the room through the small cracks and spaces between the walls, and the flutes and oboes blew sweet melodies.

_No, no. Not so stiffly, you must be smooth and gentle and move_ with _the music, not to it._

The detective lead his partner around the sitting room, maneuvering swiftly around chairs and tables and piles of papers. It was a wonder how he avoided all the obstacles, considering he only had eyes for John. They danced like that, to music only evident in their heads and in their hearts. The doctor clung to Sherlock as if his life depended on it, but as his flatmate directed, confidence developed and John Watson began to find his place in the song.

They waltzed around the cluttered sitting room, eyes fixed upon each other and the world around them a blur. Hands gripping tightly on the other, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had blissful, blank minds, not a single thought was floating in their heads for once in their life. Perhaps it was the crazy chase they had endured a few hours before, or the sudden intimacy of talking about love in the middle of the night. Or maybe it was just because they were Sherlock and John. Either way, everything felt perfectly set into place.

There was no composer in the world that could have put the notes the pair was hearing onto paper, for Sherlock and John had created their own little fantasy within the walls of 221B. The silence of London during midnight was roaring with music and the violins played an octave higher than the clarinets, teasing them lightly with graceful notes. Adrenaline coursed through their veins and dopamine crashed into their brains. Hearts pounding and eyes alight, neither one would have been surprised if the next morning they woke to a blissful dream.

As the timbre climbed the staff to reach a single, solo B natural above A harmonic from the cellos, they both could tell the climax was near. A beat later and the orchestra leaped right back in and with the cellos as the instruments swayed with finesse. The winds blew light, airy notes and-

_Beep beep beep_

The orchestra faltered and Sherlock and John stopped simultaneously. The detective looked at the doctor with a question written all over his expressionless face.

_Beep beep beep_

And just like that the musicians hastily left the flat.

“You’d better get that.” John finally answered quietly, and detached his hands from where they were on Sherlock. The buzz from the whiskey still hadn’t worn off, John’s face still warm.

Wordlessly, the detective spun around on his heel and marched towards the coffee table on the other side of the sitting room and picked up his phone with a low growl.

Lestrade. Calling at 12:28 am.

“What do you want, Lestrade?” Sherlock couldn’t hide his tone of utter annoyance.

There was a hint of a smile behind his words, “Wow, you actually picked up this time. That’s a first, Holmes.”

“Get on with it.”

“Wait a second.” John walked over to his flatmate and looked at Sherlock, “Is that Greg?”

“John?” Lestrade could apparently hear the doctor’s voice through the phone.

“Give it here, Sherlock.” John held out a hand in a demanding voice.

“Why?” The DI was now currently being ignored.

“Just give me the bloody phone.” John said and swiped the mobile from Sherlock’s hand in one swift motion.

“Greg?”

“Hey, John. Look, we need-”

“You have impeccable timing, you know that?” The sarcasm was unmistakable in John’s voice, and Sherlock smirked.

“Wha-”

John handed the phone back to Sherlock and said, “All yours now.”

Chuckling softly, the detective held the phone back up to his ear and proceeded to yell at Lestrade to ‘start talking or I will make sure Mycroft has your head’. In which the DI replied with ‘well I’m shagging your brother breathless every night so I’m pretty sure he’ll take my side on this’. Which in turn caused Sherlock to shudder and John to burst out laughing and Sherlock to growl ‘when are you two going to break up already’, with John giggling uncontrollably.

Finally, after a screaming fit that almost woke Mrs. Hudson who was a whole flat down, Sherlock and Lestrade made partial amends and they went back to talking about whatever the DI originally wanted to say.

“I need you two to come down to the station.”

“Why? You’ve already got the criminal in custody and the paperwork’s your problem, what do you need us for?”

“Well, you see, Sherlock,” They both could hear the slight crackling through the mobile as Lestrade paused, “Mr. Williams didn’t commit the murder.”

There was silence on both ends of the phone.

And then, “We’ll be right down.”

Sherlock snapped the phone shut and turned to the doctor, “Let’s go, John.”

\--

“Why?” Sherlock muttered to himself, “Why, why, why?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking ‘how’, not ‘why’?” John said aimlessly as they walked down the nearly deserted streets of London with the night sky shining bright above them.

The detective ignored him and continued to squint his eyes and stomp loudly on the pavement. Sherlock and John walked right next to each other, their shoulders brushing occasionally that the doctor was very aware of, though Sherlock had yet to say anything.

“No,” He replied back, sounding quite annoyed, “ _why_ would someone go through the trouble to framing Williams for a simple financial problem? _Why_ did Williams confess only to admit he wasn’t the killer a few hours later? _Why_ kill a poor farmer with nothing of value in his possession?”

“Yes,” John now had the same frustrated tone, “but _how_ was Williams framed? _How_ did they expect you to go through all the evidence in that specific order? _How_ did they plan this far ahead?”

“‘They’, John. You keep saying ‘they’. You’re implying that there is more…” Sherlock trailed off as his head raised slowly in realization, “Oh, John! You’re brilliant!”

The doctor widened his eyes with surprise as the detective suddenly turned to him and wrapped his lanky arms around John’s shoulders in a bone-crushing hug, squeezing his flatmate for a mere second before letting go excitedly and rambling on about what he had just discovered.

John stopped.

John blinked.

Sherlock kept walking.

Sherlock kept talking.

The pair was nearing Baker Street, only a couple blocks away now. For some reason John couldn’t comprehend Sherlock’s words as he jogged to catch up to his excited flatmate. He could only stare at the detective the whole way back to 221B and he tried very hard not to notice the way the moonlight made Sherlock’s pale skin look like porcelain.

There was also the matter of Sherlock’s impossibly long eyelashes that fluttered beautifully –wait, no, he didn’t just think that, no, no, no –fluttered _quickly_ every time the detective blinked. Sherlock’s words were just a buzz in John’s ears, and the only thing he could really focus on right now was the slight tinge of red on the tip of Sherlock’s nose and the way his prominent cheekbones were touched with that rose color too.

As Sherlock babbled on about some sort of multi-knife only available in some foreign country, John felt a small prickle of heat rising up his neck. He swore it was because of the night weather.

It wasn’t the cold.

The pair found themselves back at Baker Street with John somehow finding his voice again and hissing at Sherlock to ‘quiet down, Mrs. Hudson is asleep!’ and the detective replying with nothing but his deductions and ignoring the doctor as they climbed the stairs to their flat. Sherlock still gesturing loudly with his hands when he pushed open the door, with John following tiredly behind.

The detective took one step into 221B and…fell silent.

He stood inside the flat, hands at his side, face forward, back to John.

“Sherlock?” The doctor asked tentatively, standing behind his flatmate, “You okay?”

“John…” He said quietly, standing very still, “I believe our dance was interrupted.”

The flat had a sudden warmth in is atmosphere as his flatmate stepped around the detective until John was standing in front of Sherlock. The doctor looked him in his psychedelic eyes and a smile slowly crept onto his face.

“I believe so.”

The lights were off and the curtains of the windows were thrown open as Sherlock carefully pulled off his coat and helped John out of his. Taking John’s hands, Sherlock didn’t say another word.

The music picked up right where it left off.

Clarinets sang a beautiful high C and the violins eased their way into the background with aerial scales. Although John couldn’t hear it, he could feel every single beat and rest and forte and each alluring grace note. He felt Sherlock’s soft hands, with small calluses on each fingertip from violin playing and the smoothness of his expensive silk shirt pressed against his own wool jumper.

But something entranced John, something that stood above all else: the liveliness in Sherlock’s eyes. The way Sherlock Holmes danced was in a way no other could ever capture, or even begin to. Because although John Watson could not hear the notes that kept the pair dancing, he heard Sherlock. And with Sherlock, comes the music.

It was like stepping into a dream again, entering a palace of delusion, but not caring the slightest bit. Surreal moonlight carried an essence of starlight into the room. It was a dream indeed.

The orchestra now had a decrescendo written on their sheet music, a slow diminuendo as the winds gave their last breaths. The song, as well as the dance, was ending.

3:47 said the clock.

3:49 and the strings would die away, the flutes holding out a single note, and the harp plucking three last strings.

The footsteps stopped.

John looked at Sherlock. He couldn’t tell what expression his flatmate was wearing.

Standing there in the dark room, barely able to see each other’s faces, the detective and the doctor stayed silent, letting the dance come to a final end.

John didn’t know what he wanted Sherlock to do. Sherlock did. But he couldn’t give his flatmate that.

So the detective would give him something close. Like when you’re craving milk chocolate but you only have white in the pantry.

Almost, but not quite.

An eternity of silence, and finally, Sherlock’s soft, baritone voice broke the barrier. It was an octave lower than it usually was, and there was a certain gruffness that you just couldn’t achieve during the daytime.

 

_Do it._

_Say it._

He did.

 

“Thank you for the dance, John.”

The doctor swallowed the nervousness he didn’t knew he had and tried his hand at a witty answer. “Isn’t that my line?”

Well that fell horribly flat because Sherlock didn’t reply. John stood there in the dark, hands clasped in his flatmate’s and wondered what the detective was doing because he couldn’t see him.

Suddenly, there was a pair of soft lips on John’s left cheek. Only for a moment, a gentle, chaste, barely-there kiss. He didn’t have time to even register that they were there before Sherlock said, “Goodnight, John.” and broke away from their intertwined fingers.

A second later and John heard the click of a door closing while he stood there like a statue, in the dark, in the middle of the night, wondering what the hell had just happened.

Okay, so he had danced. With Sherlock. That was bloody weird as it were.

And then a kiss?

John squinted his eyes at nobody as he tried to find the right words.

He turned his head towards the hall which Sherlock had just walked off to, then looked back at the spot in front of him, where Sherlock had just been, then back at the hall, and then in front of him again.

Jesus Christ.

Seriously, what the bloody fucking hell just happened?

Wait, there was dancing, yes that was for sure.

A kiss, yes, there was definitely a kiss.

Wait, what?

Oh dear lord, he was losing his mind.

No, okay, he’s got this. Okay, John Watson has got this all under control. (Even if he can’t remember what actually happened.)

Tomorrow he would wake up, and he would know if this had all been a dream or not. Yes, tomorrow.

Oh god, the alcohol was catching up to him.

He really needed to get some sleep.

\--

The next morning, John Watson awoke to…pancakes?

He groaned loudly.

Stupid hangover.

Screwing up his face and wincing, John tried to block out that ache in his head. He grappled for the clock on his nightstand, but instead his hand knocked against the coolness of glass. Squinting because of the thin rays of sunlight streaming in from the closed blinds and turning his head, the doctor found a glass of water and a couple aspirin pills lying next to it. He’d have to thank Sherlock for that.

Bleary eyed with a fading headache, John got out of bed and followed his nose like a blood hound downstairs without fully waking. The moment he stepped into the kitchen, he could literally feel the warm aroma surrounding him and it jerked his senses awake.

“Sherlock?” He mumbled.

“Finally, John.”

Not hearing him, John said, “Are you making pancakes?”

“Why are you still in your pyjamas?” Sherlock didn’t hear John either.

“Pancakes. You’re making pancakes.”

“Change, John. I need you in regular clothes.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you’re cooking. On a Sunday morning. At the crack of dawn.”

“Clothes. And I highly doubt 10:37 is ‘the crack of dawn’.”

“It’s close, considering I only got six bloody hours of sleep.”

The detective was at the stove, looking simultaneously out of place yet completely at home with a spatula in his right hand and a silk dress shirt on.

“Thanks for the aspirin, Sherlock.” John said, rubbing his eyes again.

“Thought it would be best for your evident hangover.”

The doctor breathed a small laugh out of his nose and said, “I hate to admit it, but those pancakes smell good.”

“You’re not getting any until you put some proper clothes on.” Sherlock flipped a pancake on the pan.

“Says the man who walked around in his bathrobe for a whole week because he was too bored to change.”

“No pancakes for you then.”

“Fine, fine, fine.” John grumbled and turned around to walk back up the stairs to his bedroom.

Sherlock watched John walk away out of the corner of his eye, trying to ignore the warm tingly feeling that was creeping up his neck. The doctor had on an old white t-shirt with plaid pyjama pants, nothing out of the ordinary. Unless you count the fact that this was the first time Sherlock had actually noticed John’s cowlick and his slouch and his low, gruff voice that was immensely adorable.

Wait.

Did Sherlock just call John…adorable? Actually, yes. Yes, John Watson was adorable in Sherlock Holmes’s eyes. He forgot to acknowledge what his brother had written to him about John in his mind.

Also, John had walked down barefoot and the cotton tee had showed off his tan, muscular arms and the moment before he had spoken to the detective he’d rubbed his eyes with his knuckles sleepily, looking like a five year old with morning softness.

Adorable. Full-on cute.

Sherlock smiled to himself as he added another perfectly-made pancake to the stack on the plate next to the stove. Pouring another of the pancake batter onto the pan, Sherlock started to hum. Hum what, do you suppose? Well the waltz, of course. What else? The dance that the detective and the doctor had danced together. There was nothing else.

He flipped the pancake.

He hummed some more.

He set the pancake on the stack next to the pan.

He started to sing.

He started to make another pancake.

He sang brilliantly, letting his voice fill the entire room.

He didn’t register footsteps descending the stairs.

He spun around on his heel, getting caught up in the moment.

He froze.

“So it wasn’t a dream then?” John had a small smile on his face.

The detective gave John a one-over and nodded his head in satisfaction at his flatmate’s clothing choices.

“Obviously not.” Sherlock straightened his back and turned around to get back to the pancake that was starting to sizzle on the pan.

“Now,” said John, sitting at the kitchen table (which for once was free of all experiments), “can you tell me why you have moved all of our furniture against the walls and why there is just an empty space in our sitting room?”

“Eat.” The detective turned off the stove and handed a plate of still-hot pancakes to John with a fork and a bottle of honey.

“I should be the one saying that to you.” He said absentmindedly, distracted by the steam rising from his homemade breakfast.

Sherlock stayed quiet but sat across from John and watched him attack the stack in front of him. The detective’s eyes flitted over the doctor, taking in the way he had hurriedly dressed and the touch of tiredness by his eyes, and the way John’s hair was still tousled in that adorable way.

Suddenly, the half-eaten plate was being pushed towards him. Sherlock looked up, meeting John’s eyes.

“Now you eat.”

“Really, John,” He gave an exasperated sigh, “I ate two days ago.”

“That’s far too long to be without food.”

“For _you_.”

“Just eat it.” The doctor gave his ‘no-nonsense’ look.

The detective scowled but didn’t mean it as he grabbed the fork that was still at John’s side across the table and began to shovel the food into his mouth.

“Whoa, Sherlock! Slow down!” John chuckled when the food disappeared in approximately three seconds.

“Come on, John.” Sherlock’s cheeks were bulging as he stood and left the plate on the table.

“Are you going to answer my question now?”

“Which one?” The detective gave an innocent look.

“The one that inquires as to why all our furniture has been rearranged.” said John, raising an eyebrow.

“Ah, yes. That.”

Sherlock walked around the table and grabbed John by the arm, lifting him into a standing position. The doctor simply heaved a sigh and followed Sherlock to the middle of the bare floor of their sitting room.

“So? You going to explain?” John and Sherlock were standing in the center of the sitting room, both with bare feet and the detective wearing the not-quite-disgusted-but-close look at the doctor.

“I am going to teach you to dance,” Sherlock announced, looking John straight in the eyes, “You were atrocious last night even if you are a fast learner.”

“Well sorry I didn’t grow up in a palace with a ballroom and private lessons every Thursday.” The doctor growled in annoyance.

“It was every Sunday.” said Sherlock and John tried to suppress a scowl (it didn’t really work out).

“You going to teach me or what?”

And then it was like the god of love or whatever flipped the switch in the room because the atmosphere was all hush-hush now. Everyone was holding their breath for something unknown to John but completely planned by Sherlock.

The detective pulled his gaze away from John for a moment and stepped towards the doctor’s laptop (which was open of course) that was sitting on the desk pushed against the wall next to the window and tapped a few keys.

A second later and music filled the flat.

It was music that was much too heart aching to be played during the daytime, but somehow it fit perfectly with Sherlock and John.

Melancholy notes flowed smoothly to John’s ears, causing him to be overwhelmed with an ache in his chest as Sherlock walked back to his flatmate and set their positions.

The tall one didn’t say a word but lead the shorter one around the room in circles that was now furnished to his liking. As the notes became lighter and brighter, Sherlock began to add seeming out-of-place steps here and there. John was looking down at their feet, squinting his eyes and trying to keep up with the skilled dancer. The detective smirked silently at the doctor’s un-combed hair as he moved with the music.

A violin solo was heard high above the background orchestra and John tried his best to copy Sherlock’s movements and find the pattern as Sherlock guided him quickly and mercilessly in a waltz.

“Sherlock,” John murmured, still looking down at their feet, “you need to actually teach me how to dance.”

“Just follow me.” Sherlock said softly.

“I’m trying.”

“Dance _with_ me, not at me, John.”

“I have absolutely no idea what that means.”

“Just feel it. Don’t think.” The detective spun John around the room.

“You’re one to talk, I highly doubt you have ever not thought before.” The blonde still struggled.

“No, John.” Sherlock said, “Don’t look at our feet, look at me.”

Then Sherlock removed John’s left hand from his right, continuing to dance as he put his forefinger and his thumb under and on John’s chin, lifting his head up to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

Reaching for John’s hand again, he whispered, “Better.”

And so they waltzed. Dancing to the nostalgic music that somehow made them both want to cry and yet seemed like a beautiful sunny day. The notes were like getting teary eyed at a sunrise. John got lost in Sherlock’s eyes and his mind was blissfully blank. Not a single thought was running through his head as he danced with his flatmate.

As for Sherlock, well, he was thinking, as always. But this time, his mind was solely on John and John only. The way his feet made soft padding noises on the hardwood floor, the delicate laugh-lines on the corner of his eyes and the way his deep indigo eyes felt like you were drowning in out at sea.

So somehow, at ten in the morning, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson found themselves dancing in the middle of the sitting room with all their furniture pressed hastily up against the walls.

But as everyone knows, all good things come to an end. Even the little things.

The music stopped.

The orchestra slowly died away and the last note was given to the pianist who pressed a soft sweet note to finish the piece.

They stood there with their hands now at their sides, staring at each other, as if not daring to move for fear of breaking the atmosphere.

“How did I do?” John asked softly.

Sherlock looked John straight in the eye and he said, “That was horrible.”

John burst out laughing.

“Then show me how it’s done.”

“Certainly.”

They practiced waltzing for the whole Sunday, all the way until eleven o’clock at night and having only stopped once for lunch (much to Sherlock’s annoyance).

And that is the story of how a certain detective and a certain doctor fell asleep on the sofa of their flat together.

Oh! No, no, no. Not like sleeping-sleeping, if you know what I mean. Just that they sat together for some midnight telly and John found the side his head on Sherlock’s shoulder while Sherlock’s cheek became pressed onto the top of John’s head.  

Now _that_ was adorable.

\--

And so Sunday night turned into Monday morning.

“Oh shite!”

John practically threw Sherlock off of him and raced to his bedroom upstairs to get changed. The detective’s head was now placed somewhat uncomfortably on the armrest of the sofa and his eyes were just beginning to open. He stifled a yawn as John ran around the flat, grabbing keys and socks and flipping his jumper around that he put on backwards.

The doctor was just about to step out the door when Sherlock said sleepily, “Wait, John.”

“What? I really need to get going if I’m going to make it to the surgery on time.”

Sherlock was rising ever-so-slowly off the sofa and padded across the sitting room to the kitchen, his hair ruffled and his dress shirt that he wore to sleep horribly wrinkled.

“Seriously, Sherlock. What do you need?” John tapped his foot impatiently.

“One moment, please, John.” Sherlock slouched and the sleepiness was hanging over him like a cloud.

“Hurry up.”

The detective was doing something in the kitchen and John stood by the door, a hand on the knob, gritting his teeth and trying not to yell. One second he was thinking about what to say as his lame excuse for being late and the next there was an apple in his face.

“Eat on the way.” Sherlock yawned again.

“Oh. Er, thanks, Sherlock.” John was oddly touched by his flatmate’s kind gesture and smiled as he took the apple, “But I really have to go now, so I’ll see you tonight.”

“Have fun taking care of sick babies and their dreadful mothers.” Sherlock drawled. His low voice had sarcasm dripping off it like honey.

The doctor chuckled and then…he didn’t think.

“Bye, love.” And a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

The detective had no time to react, just the doctor’s mouth pressing against his and suddenly a nanosecond of awkward realization (for John that is, Sherlock was still trying to comprehend what had happened) and the blonde bolted out the door. He left Sherlock blinking after his shadow, still trying to figure out why John had done what he did.

\--

_FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK_

That was the only train of thought running through John’s brain as he rode the tube down to Central London.

Well, that and _SHITESHITESHITESHITESHITE_.

So basically it went something like this:

_What the fucking hell did I just do?!_

_When I get back tonight- shite!_

Etc., etc.

And let’s just say that the people on the tube stood clear of this wide-eyed, messy-haired, deranged-looking man. But the worst thing was, when John got to the surgery, the only thing he could think of was those dark brown, almost black curly locks, sometimes falling in front of that pale face, and that face with those eyes, oh goodness, those eyes…

He broke out of his trance when Ms. Cooper asked something about medication and whatnot.

“Yes, yes. Of course. I’ll have you take some regular Ibuprofen and just follow the instructions on the box.”

John sighed with relief as the elderly lady closed the door to the room behind her and he leaned back heavily in his chair. Rubbing his temple, John Watson internally freaked out. He was having a teenage sexuality crisis in his mid-thirties. Hold up, was this his mid-life crisis? But didn’t those happen a little later than the thirties? Good god, it was either that or he was losing his mind.

Anyways, the only problem here was his godforsaken flatmate that kept interrupting his thoughts when he least wanted to his that dark haired detective. If those thoughts could just _go away,_ now that was what he needed right now.

Oh, look at the time. 3:45, his next appointment.

Joy.

\--

John was tripping up the steps of 221B, cursing loudly with a colorful vocabulary as he dragged three shopping bags full of the next week’s food in his hands. The day had not gone well with four appointments of children with the flu and three old women concerned about some bodily fluids and…well he couldn’t remember anything else. John reached the upstairs and unfortunately for him, the door was closed and he had no hands to open it.

“Sherlock!”

No answer from inside.

“Sherlock!”

He tried once again; no reply.

“SHERLOCK HOLMES YOU BLOODY FUCKING OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT N-”

The door swung open gracefully and the detective stood on the other side, a mocking, questioning look on his face. Along with a deep purple silk dress shirt and exceptionally nice slacks to be wearing at home, Sherlock looked as if he had just gotten home from one of Mycroft’s dinner parties.

“Thank you.” John nodded curtly and stepped inside, dumping the groceries on the kitchen counter without bothering to put them away like he normally did.

“Bad day?” Sherlock retreated back to his leather chair and sat down, swinging one leg over the other and watching the doctor’s every move.

“You know very well that it was.” The short one huffed and walked over to sit across from Sherlock.

“Care to talk about it?” The issue with that morning and John’s kiss was momentarily forgotten by both of the men. _Momentarily_.

“No.”

And then John picked up his laptop from the coffee table and decided to do some evening writing on his blog. He made it to four minutes with the detective’s eyes boring into his head before he glared at the words and shut the screen with a loud snap.

Sherlock smirked as John set the laptop down.

But before the detective could even utter a single syllable, John said, “I’m hungry. What do you want for supper?”

“Not hungry.”

“Sherlock, you’re eating.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes, you are. I am not playing this game with you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave an exaggerated sigh. “Fine, what are we having?”

“Thai sounds very appetizing right about now.”

“You just bought groceries.”

“Hush.” John said.

The doctor had gotten up and he plucked the restaurant menu from under the phone in the kitchen to scan the list.

“Pad Thai for me then.” The detective said after a moment in his bored tone.

“Alright then, I’ll call.”

“Don’t forget the peanuts.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t forget.”

Sherlock sat in his chair as John called the restaurant. The doctor could feel his flatmate’s eyes on him as he talked on the phone, trying to listen to the person on the other end speak about the spiciness rating for each dish. Finally, after a tedious six minutes of explaining that he didn’t want number twenty seven, he wanted number _thirty_ seven, John put the phone down and walked back to Sherlock.

They sat in silence for a couple of moments before John got the courage to speak.

“Er, Sherlock?” He looked away from his flatmate.

“Yes, John?”

“About this morning, erm, well, I’m really sorry and-”

 

_Do it._

_Say it._

He did.

John faltered as Sherlock stood, with his piercing eyes on his flatmate and took one stride to his chair. Stooping down, as John’s eyes widened, Sherlock dropped a kiss to John’s cheek.

They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment longer and then Sherlock swiftly turned around back to his own chair again. Picking up his violin and absentmindedly plucking the strings, Sherlock let his gaze wander to everything except for John.

“So,” He said slowly, “you’re fine with this morning?”

“Obviously.” The reply was quick and curt.

“Right. Okay then.”

The night passed without a word of either one of the kisses. Everything was back to normal. (Only-if-you-don’t-count-the-fact-that-Sherlock-knew-John-loved-him-and-love-was-a-really-confusing-subject-and-Sherlock-didn’t-want-to-think-about-it-right-now.)

\--

Thursday afternoon Sherlock found himself alone at home. And he didn’t feel like going into his Mind Palace, so the detective was absolutely, positively bored out of his mind. Then came the chant.

 

_Do it._

_Say it._

Once it said that. And this time, it wasn’t commanding him to do or say anything. It was simply informing Sherlock of its presence.

The detective picked up his phone and played with it while he watched people walk on the sidewalk below him. Giving in after precisely one hour and twelve minutes, he finally tapped out a message.

_Red. –S_

_Mind? –M_

_Yes. –S_

_Eleven minutes. –M_

Sherlock set his phone down and waited.

 

 

Mycroft walked into 221B without knocking.

“What is it?” He said immediately.

“Four words.”

Standing by the window, the detective’s back was to his brother and his face was completely hidden.

The politician furrowed his eyebrows and the worry that transferred itself from Sherlock to him appeared on his face, but he didn’t say a word. The feeling was all he needed.

“Do it. Say it.” said Sherlock’s low voice.

The detective swallowed and felt the familiar feeling of emotions being pulled from his heart and resignation found its way as a replacement of the worry that had gone. Years and years of practicing to not feel a single emotion had not done a single thing.

Caring is not an advantage.

Sherlock was still looking out the window, his back to Mycroft and his voice in a daze.

“What does it mean, Mycroft?” He turned around to face his older brother, “What does it mean?”

Desperation etched itself into Sherlock’s every word, creeping in with the hoarseness of his voice and the politician sighed heavily, reaching out to coax the detective into his arms.

As the detective let himself be held by his brother’s strong arms, Mycroft whispered, “I don’t know. I don’t know, little brother.”

Guiding him to his chair, the politician smoothed Sherlock’s hair before sitting in the chair opposite him. “Red?”

“Yes.”

“When do the words appear?”

“Every time I’m about to lie.”

Mycroft took a deep breath and the worry took over his look again, “Lie about what?”

“Love or John.”

“John?”

Sherlock glared at his brother and said, “Yes, John.”

The politician cocked his head to one side and took another breath. And then another feeling broke through the worry that had transferred itself from Sherlock to him and he was laughing. Pure, unadulterated joy that filled the room with glee.

“What?” Sherlock demanded, “This isn’t funny, Mycroft.”

Fits of gasped laughter faded into lingering huffs of breaths after many moments and finally the detective’s older brother was left smiling.

“Sherlock, it’s so simple.”

“What?” He growled again.

Mycroft almost let the worry take over but quickly leaned forward with that stupid smug smile and chuckled once again before saying, “You’re in love.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

\--

The whole next week was normal. Well, as normal as you could get living with a consulting detective while he runs around dodging bullets simultaneously rambling on about a hypnotic honey experiment he was conducting.

It was Tuesday night and nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Until John Watson realized that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes that is.

It started at precisely 6:58 that night, having just eaten some Indian take away and sitting lazily in his chair, John had felt very content. Sherlock was lying down on the sofa, as always, in his Mind Palace. John looked at Sherlock with a fond smile on his face while the detective was blissfully unaware.

Three words the doctor had thought were enough to strike him with the realization.

_God, he’s beautiful._

That scared the living shite out of John Watson.

His eyes were wide and John was looking around frantically, having no idea what to do. Interrupting the doctor’s rapid breathing patterns, Sherlock’s soft snore could be heard.

John stopped. And in all his worrying, he chuckled.

Another string of thought ran through his mind. _What have I got to lose?_

The doctor stood and walked over to the sleeping detective to sit on the narrow space of sofa left available. He smiled again and leaned down to press a kiss lovingly to Sherlock’s forehead.

“Love you.” The doctor whispered.

John had always been bold.

Then again, so had Sherlock.

The detective’s eyes flew open at the touch and John took a sharp intake of breath, startled by his flatmate.

“It seems Mycroft was right, I love you too.” He said in one breath.

Sherlock closed his eyes abruptly and seemed to go right back to sleep.

John blinked. And bit his lip. He bit his lip for the reason to keep from bursting out laughing. It didn’t work.

The doctor was doubled over in fits of laughter, having to grip Sherlock’s shirt to keep from falling off the couch. Sherlock open his eyes and at the sight of John crying tears of laughter, started to giggle himself.

Two flatmates, professing their love for each other, and then laughing about it.

A.K.A. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

They kept laughing for who knows how long and it ended with John kissing Sherlock’s forehead again and saying goodnight. Right after saying another ‘I love you’.

So basically, it was a normal Tuesday night.

\--

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed with the door closed on Wednesday night. It seems he loved another person now. He would need to go back to the scientist and tell him the new information. Eh, it was alright. No need to go through all that trouble. He loved John.

Sherlock gave a small smiled and no one in the whole entire world knew.

\--

Three raps on the door, Mycroft then.

Wait. Again? It hadn’t even been four days.

Sherlock didn’t even bother to get up off his chair as his older brother came walking smartly into his flat.

Making his breathing even and letting the calmness wash over him, the detective became a machine of a man. Sherlock Holmes couldn’t afford to hurt Mycroft Holmes anymore.

“Hello again, Sherlock.” Sickly sweet politeness dripped off his words.

Serious business it is.

“Mycroft.”

The elder Holmes sat in the leather chair opposite Sherlock, the one John usually occupied. The detective wiped his face and composure of all feeling, almost making himself invisible to the world.

“We’re alone, Sherlock. You don’t have to pretend.” Mycroft said softly, his barrier slowly being taken down.

He looked his brother straight in the eyes. “I always have to pretend.”

“No, you don’t. Please, Sherlock, I need to know what you’re feeling.” The wall was down now. The side reserved for only his brother was revealed.

“We are not repeating our childhood, Mycroft.” The detective said curtly and gave a cold stare off into space.

A moment a silence, and then, “You’re right.” said the politician, fiddling with the gold ring on his right hand and casting an uneasy gaze down at his feet.

An odd unsettling feeling was hanging overhead of 221B and tension crept into the room. The moments of silence turned into minutes. They weren’t meeting each other’s eyes. They couldn’t.

“I am going to kiss John tonight.” Sherlock suddenly announced.

Mycroft immediately stopped twiddling the ring and  looked up sharply. His hardened eyes and pursed lips told the detective that his brother disapproved. Deeply.

“I thought you said that we would not repeat our childhood.” He replied. A quiet rage was woven in with each word.

“You told me I loved him.”

“That doesn’t mean you can kiss him.”

“It’s not going to be a repeat.” Sherlock met his brother’s aquamarine eyes with his own.

“How do you know?”

The reply was simple. “It’s John.”

“You said the same about Victor.”

“Don’t say his name.” The detective’s hiss was cold and sharp.

“I simply don’t want your utter infatuation with having physical contact with Dr. Watson to disrupt the friendship you have with him now.” Mycroft said coolly.

Sherlock met his brother’s level of superiority and his words implied vigilance. “It’s different this time.”

“Prove it, Sherlock.”

“You already have all the proof you need.”

“Which is?” The politician cocked his head in imitated innocence.

“I know you can feel it, Mycroft.”

And he did.

Mycroft Holmes could sense the longing ache in Sherlock’s heart, the organ they had thought shut down for many years. But of course, one needs a beating heart to continue living. That pulsing thing in Sherlock’s chest had an outstretched hand, reaching for something that was just out of his grasp. Mycroft could feel it all, and his own heart started to mimic his brother’s with a faux sadness.

“You told me not to pretend, so I’m not.” Sherlock whispered after a moment.

The elder Holmes shut his eyes tightly, trying as he had time and time again, to block out the depression that was radiating off of Sherlock onto him. This man, this dignified politician here, was trying not to take away the heartache from the one he cared for most. For because of the family, Sherlock had been born with a mind and Mycroft with a heart.

Suddenly, the grief was gone and Sherlock’s wall had gone back up.

“You wanted me to feel it.” Mycroft opened his eyes and his cold demeanor reappeared.

“Yes.”

Silence filled the room once again. The two brothers stared at one another, one with the intention of persuasion, the other a rock that cannot be moved. But sometimes, all you need is a little push.

“Do you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Their eyes met once again and a silent exchange of words passed between the Holmes brothers.

“I will take care of the Williams case for you.” Mycroft stood, “And I’ll come to check on you in three days. If you are not out by then, I will make proper arrangements to ensure your bodily health but I will not disturb your mind. Goodbye, Sherlock.”

The politician didn’t look at his brother as he slipped the gold band off his finger on his right hand and placed it on the small tea table beside the chair.

Mycroft still didn’t look at Sherlock as he shut the door and walked down the steps with a poised manner and a head full of worry. But at the last step, he stopped. The politician smiled as he pulled out a small slip of paper from his left pocket that read:

_Williams is in Oxford, arrest Posey if he has hiking boots._

His brother, no matter how childish or ignorant, was brilliant. Mycroft stepped out the door onto the pavement of Baker Street, and into the sleek black car that was waiting for him.

The detective kept his eyes fixed on the ring Mycroft had left and even though he couldn’t see him, Sherlock knew exactly when Mycroft had found the note he had left him.

Tonight.

He was going to do something he hadn’t done in seventeen years.

Tonight.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I FINALLY got around to finishing this chapter (but it's considerably shorter than the first) so I am going to get myself a cookie for all this work. 
> 
> HEY GUYS: If you've already read the first chapter, please go back and either re-read or skim it please because I edited it and added A LOT of things. Thanks a bunch!

Sherlock reached for his violin that was on the table next to his chair and absentmindedly plucked the strings as his eyes lingered at the seat Mycroft had just been sitting in a mere forty eight seconds ago. He narrowed his eyes. Getting up out of his own chair, the detective slipped his hand underneath the back cushion. A note. Folded in half with one crease. No signature. They really were a traditional family, weren’t they? Leaving letters for one another. Sherlock opened the expensive manila paper and took a small breath as he read the familiar cursive handwriting.

_You and me, Sherlock. You and me._

Staring at it for a couple seconds more, a hint of a sad smile grew on his face as the nostalgia came rushing back. Carefully, the detective re-folded the paper and walked over to the coffee table to tuck it safely in between a couple magazines where the message would be hidden to the world. And for once in his life, Sherlock knew where his phone was. Convenient. He quickly typed out a text and in a few seconds Mycroft would pick up his own phone already knowing what the message would be.

_You and I._

No signature this time. Memorizing and cataloging everything about each other were acts done long ago. Convenient, again. Sitting back down in his chair and resuming his violin plucking, the detective started to wait.  

At the sixteen minute mark, Sherlock began to drum the tip of his bow against his knee as this waiting was getting much too boring. It was exactly noon and for whatever reason the sun had just decided to visit London that day. Even though the November air was cold, the streaks of sun that fell in between grey clouds were more than enough to bring smiles to the Londoners.  

Sherlock gave up tapping and finally took a delicate sip of the tea he had made himself and recoiled in disgust at the taste. Wrinkling his nose, the detective suddenly stopped. Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of it until now?

He carefully set his Stradivarius in its case and took refuge on the sofa, assuming his ‘don’t bother me I’m thinking’ position though there was no one around to see it.

Closing his eyes, the detective let his body go still, his mind go blank, and his soul go numb. Heart beat slowing, bright sunlight began to stream into his vision from the corners, bringing with them a few drops of green and blue. A thud and Sherlock’s feet landed firmly onto the dirt. Before he’d even begun to blink his eyes open, Sherlock was walking forwards, knowing the path better than the back of his hand.

His trench coat swished with the slight breeze, and to that day he still could not figure out why that coat appeared with him in his mind ever since he got it.

But that was a mystery lost with the wind. Right now, Sherlock’s first stop was that small drawing room tucked in the back of his palace, the one with the ‘magical’ parchment. If he was lucky, his brother would have written something more.

Reaching his palace, Sherlock gently pulled the exceedingly heavy double doors open with ease and slipped inside. He spared not a moment admiring the elegant tile or aristocratic chandelier, instead heading straight to the drawing room. Meaning that he didn’t notice four tiny words scratched onto the ceiling. They were two inches in length, could barely be seen from below.

 

_Do it._

_Say it._

He passed them and reached the room. Immediately prying open the chest and unraveling the scroll, Sherlock scanned the page. He nodded to himself with satisfaction. A new entry, it would seem. The detective focused his eyes on the last part he read last time and began to read.

_I know you relish having someone there, Sherlock. I do._

_But you’ve resisted others’ advances before so why is it him? Why him? Why now?_

_I can’t give you the answer._

_Sherlock._

_This isn’t a rhetorical question, I’m actually asking you why it’s him._

_Because I honestly have no idea._

_But please be careful, because I don’t know who you are anymore. I don’t know what happened. One moment you were a child, running and jumping and skipping and laughing until dawn with our family. Then the next and you’ve diagnosed yourself as a sociopath and refuse to go to rehab for a cocaine addiction while Mycroft silently worries for you from countries away. I’ve lost touch with you. The drug that made your mind chase the wind left me behind. You haven’t spoken to me in ages and I miss you._

_Before I go completely, I have one more thing to tell you, Sherlock._

_Our hearts are heavy burdens. Heavy burdens that we grew up thinking could never be lifted. The first was the biggest fucking mistake you’ve ever made and we both know that. He whispered sweet nothings into your ear (bastard) and when you exposed your back, trusting him to carry a bit of your weight, he only added stones to that burden and suddenly it was too late. You locked yourself away and have for fourteen years._

_The second, well the second is the one I’ve just talked about, isn’t he?_

_He makes you feel things that you’ve trained yourself not to and that is the best anyone can give you right now. He brings the laughter you haven’t heard in years out of your mouth, only to shovel food down your throat and he keeps you alive. You should know, Sherlock, that you keep him alive too._

_What’s the word for that? Oh, right. Love._

_I’m already lost in storm that is your mind._

_So just hold his hand and he will hold yours. Kiss him and he will kiss you. Take care of him and he will take care of you. Love John and he will love you._

_Or, if he is as extraordinary as you always seem to think, love him because he loves you._

_But he isn’t the only love you have. It’s all around you, Sherlock. Look around._

_Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, even the reminiscence of Miss Sally Donovan can still be found. Hold onto the love that you have left and don’t you fucking dare let go. I was with you all that time and now you need to learn to stand on your own._

_I love you Sherlock, remember that. You’re my little brother and I’m your big brother and we will always be family._

_I left the world when I was eight and have grown up with you in your mind. I’ve already left but you forced some part of me to stay here. I need to go now, I really do. So get a good grip on your love, and once you do, I’m letting go._

_I’ll see you later, Sherlock._

Sherlock read the last five words and took a deep breath. He stood there for a moment, taking in the words and their meanings and the memory of his family. He lowered the scroll and the autumn sun shone through the tall window behind him and he rolled up the piece of paper.

The man speaking to him through words on paper had only written one page. Granted, his brother was never really one for long tangents.

As if in a daze, the detective set the parchment back into the cedar chest at his feet and locked it up, placing the key on top of the box where anyone could unlock it and read all that he had just read. Looking around him, Sherlock’s multi-colored eyes roamed dreamily around the drawing room and catalogued everything from the specks of dust two centimeters away from his nose to the black paint that was chipping away on the windowsill.

His breathing was slow and even as Sherlock walked out of the drawing room and out of his castle.

And for the first time in his whole life, Sherlock Holmes simply sat outside of his Mind Palace and admired the view. He leaned against the trunk of an oak tree right outside his palace and looked at the trees. Leaves were just beginning to turn gold from green while some had already become a beautiful ruby. It was a wave of green and gold below him, the cliff his castle stood on overlooked thousands of birch and swirling cascara trees, swaying slightly with the wind. Above ran an endless blue sky, looking up was like looking deep into an ocean, it seemed to go on forever. Hints of wispy clouds were peeking out from behind the oak tree Sherlock sitting against and they glowed with the reflection of the sun.

Then without warning, without a preamble of thundering clouds, it began to rain. Not the grey rain that only shows itself during funerals and war, but the kind that begins as a drizzle and crescendos into a storm. A light rain that tramples itself upon you.

Droplets fell as individuals and implanted themselves on the ground of Sherlock’s mind. The detective looked up from his shelter of the oak tree as a couple of leaves shook water down on his nose and saw that a brilliant blue was still the sky and the rain seemed to come out of nowhere.

Sherlock stood up as if he were in a trance and stepped out of the dry path under the oak branches. The rain was coming down consistently harder as the detective’s hair became matted to his head and raindrops soaked into his beloved coat.

Looking up again, he breathed in the scent of the rain and felt each drop fall delicately onto his face. It’d been a long time since he’d felt the rain like this. A long time since the rain was gentle with him.

The detective stood there and let the water rain down upon his mind.

\--

Footsteps.

 _John’s_ footsteps.

Sherlock whipped his head around and turned to stare at the top shelf of the bookcase, where a miniscule camera was hidden in between the books. He glared at camera for a full thirty seconds as John climbed the stairs, sending a mental message: _Mycroft you stupid meddling fuck._

It had been precisely nine minutes since the rain had stopped in his mind and Sherlock had decided to come back to reality. And one o’clock in the afternoon was not the usual time for doctors to come back from work.

A couple gentle raps on the door to make his presence known as the doctor swung it open. “Sherlock?” The detective sighed and stood up, out of his chair.

“Have you had lunch yet, John?”

“No,” John furrowed his eyebrows at the sigh, “why do you ask?”

“I’ve prepared something.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m home early?”

Sherlock set his violin in its case and walked over to the kitchen. “Mycroft.”

“Mycroft?”

“Yes.”

“What about him?” John raised an eyebrow.

“He’s been meddling.” Sherlock hissed, his back facing his flatmate and his head buried in the fridge.

The doctor stood at the edge of the island in their kitchen, slightly confused as to what Sherlock was talking about. “Er… I don’t quite know what that means, but they’ve told me I’m on paid leave for a week and - what are you doing?”

“Getting our lunch.” He said, pulling out a bowl and finally looking up to meet John’s eyes.  

A still confused John strode over to where Sherlock was and looked at the bowl of cold pasta in his hand, “You cooked?!”

“Don’t be absurd.” The sun cast a lovely glow in the sitting room of 221B.

His flatmate chuckled and Sherlock watched him set up the table. Two forks, two spoons, and two plates. Two for two of them. The detective had never really looked at it before, he simply overlooked it like everything else. Two chairs, a sofa for two, always two cups of tea, only space for two coats on the coatrack, and the two of them. Sherlock looked at John setting the table and watched the sunlight get caught between his slightly greying hairs that were still just a bit blonde. John hummed quietly to himself and the detective saw his delicate, calloused hands carefully place each fork and each spoon into place.

By god, he was gorgeous.

Gentle features outlined John’s face and Sherlock analyzed his flatmate closer than he ever had. Bags under his eyes for all those sleepless nights when the detective had worked him to the bone for a case. Dark indigo eyes that looked brown until you were three centimeters away. Nose on the larger side, but perfect.

Sherlock Holmes couldn’t feel himself falling deeper into John Watson.

Looking at him, the detective seriously considered throwing the food down, saying ‘fuck it’ and locking lips with John right then. But no, he had to wait. Wait for the right moment. Wait until they had eaten so they had energy to run from whatever he had in his mind. Yep, wait.

And so he did. He waited very much impatiently for twenty five minutes for his flatmate to finish that damned pasta. Tapping his foot against the stool, John finally looked up at twenty six minutes, a question written all over his face. “You okay?”

Sherlock glared at John, “Finish the food.”

“I’m going to take that as a yes.” Said John.

“Just finish the goddamn food.”

The doctor smirked but polished off the pasta in a couple minutes.

Finally.

“Come on, John.” Sherlock stood as soon as his flatmate set the fork down and grabbed John’s hand, interlacing their fingers though the walk to the sitting room was a rather short one.

“Care to explain?” John said, but didn’t let go.

“In a moment.”

Bringing him to the sofa, Sherlock wordlessly laid down on it, pulling his flatmate down with him. They lay there nose to nose, torsos pressed snuggly against each other and heads resting on the left armrest.

John smiled, snuggling in closer to Sherlock and threw an arm around his waist. “Now would you like to explain?” He said into the detective’s button up shirt.

“Certainly.”

Sherlock tentatively set his hand on the back of John’s neck and played with the short hairs there. The doctor hummed with content and waited for the detective to speak first.

“John.” He said.

 

_Say it._

 

He couldn’t.

 

“Hm?”

 

_Do it._

He did.

 

“Be prepared.”

“Wha-”

With that the detective pressed his cupid-bow lips roughly against the doctor’s. It was a little too rushed, a little too desperate, their teeth coming into contact uncomfortably. John grunted in surprise, but Sherlock could feel his face softening and his mouth moving to fit his own. He cupped his hands around Sherlock’s face and righted himself. The doctor smiled against the detective’s mouth.

Sherlock could feel it. He could feel himself slipping away into his own mind. And he was bringing his flatmate with him.

John however, still too caught up in feeling the softness of Sherlock’s lips, did not register his mind becoming increasingly blank. They were sinking, and although John couldn’t feel it, Sherlock was carefully guiding him towards the right door.

The transition was quick, it was simple. The detective still had his lips pressed against John’s as he felt his feet land firmly onto the dirt ground with a soft thump.  

A nanosecond later and Sherlock knew his doctor’s feet had touched the ground as well. Opening his eyes but not breaking the kiss, the detective watched John for the moment of realization. Sherlock tightened his grip around John’s waist, for fear he might topple over.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

John stumbled back roughly, only to be held right side up by the detective.

“John.”

“WHAT THE FUCK.”

“John, plea-”

“WHAT THE BLOODY FUCKING HELL.”

“John, I-”

“WHERE THE FUCK ARE WE SHERLOCK?!”

Frantic and confused, the doctor pulled harshly at his sandy hair and breathed heavily. John turned around to face Sherlock and gripped his bony shoulders, the doctor’s fingers digging into his flesh.

“Where the bloody fucking hell are we, Sherlock?” His voice was quiet and steely, but his wide eyes gave away everything.

“John.” Sherlock carefully removed his hands from John’s waist, only to have the doctor hold tighter onto him, “I need you to calm down.”

“Calm down.” John said, “CALM DOWN?! WE WERE JUST AT HOME AND NOW WE’RE IN SOME FOREST AND-”

He stopped.

Sherlock gave a relieved sigh. Finally, a-

John started to giggle. And then that giggle turned into full-out laughing, full-out, belly-clutching laughing. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Looking at the detective with a smile on his face, John said, “I am so sorry, Sherlock.”

“What?” Now it was Sherlock’s turn to be confused.

“I fell asleep on you, didn’t I?” Both of John’s hands left Sherlock’s shoulders and went to cup his cheeks. The doctor went on his tiptoes for a moment to peck the detective on the lips, “That was a _very_ good kiss though.”

“Wait,” He furrowed his eyebrows and muttered more to himself than to Sherlock, “Did the kiss even happen?”

“Fell asleep?” Sherlock obliged as John reached to intertwine their fingers, “John, we’re not in a dream.”

“That’s what you always say.” John said fondly.

“Always?”

“You must not remember anything from last time.” The doctor smiled.

“Last time?”

“Last time you took me to Paris for a case but you got us stuck on the top of the Eiffel Tower and-”

Sherlock cut him off.

“John, we’re not in a dream, this is my mind.”

“As I was saying until you so _rudely_ interrupted-” John furrowed his eyebrows, “Wait, what?”

“John.” Said Sherlock slowly, “This isn’t a dream. This is my mind.”

“Say that again?”

Clutching his arms and holding them tightly, the detective looked into the doctor’s eyes, “We are physically in my mind. This is what I was telling you to be prepared for.”

“Ha!” John gave a short, barking laugh, “Well that’s a new one, haven’t heard you say that before.”

“John,” Sherlock looked at him warily, “Look around you.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows as he swiveled around, the yellowing leaves on the birch trees swaying slightly with the breeze. “Yeah?”

“How does it look?’

“What do you mean?”

“Does it look real? Is the light reflecting off the right way? Are the shadows perfectly in perspective? Can you feel the ground beneath your feet?”

“Um…yeah, I guess so.”

“Now touch something.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Uh…alright then.”

John took a couple steps to the nearest tree and laid and hand on the white, papery trunk of a birch tree. His eyes widened beyond proportion the moment his calloused fingertips touched the rough skin and the doctor snapped his head back towards Sherlock.

“Oh my god.” He whispered in awe. Turning away from the detective, John turned his head upwards at the sky and he had never in his life seen a blue as crystal clear as that. Never before had he looked up and seen the depth of space from the ground.

Suddenly, John clutched the trunk of the tree with urgency, squeezing it with both hands, running his fingers none-too-gently down the hard knots and rapping it with his knuckles to test the solidity.

“It’s real.” Sherlock finally said, “I can transport myself and anyone I kiss on the lips into my mind, John.” Sherlock still had his eyes locked onto his doctor’s face. “Well technically, my mind is not a physical place, what you’re feeling is the memory of what you have felt before that your brain has transferred with you into my mind. You’re not physically here, it is only your conscience self.”

John blinked.

“What.”

Without saying or doing anything more to explain again, Sherlock simply leaned forward and gave his doctor a gentle kiss. Slow and sweet, cupping John’s face, the detective allowed himself to feel the soft lips move with his own.

And he waited.

John pulled back slowly, a small smile on his mouth from the kiss. Seeing Sherlock’s face, he furrowed his eyebrows together, “What’s wrong?”

Speaking ever so slowly, Sherlock said, “John, this may come as a concerning thought, but,” he paused and took a small breath, “I don’t know how to get us out of here.”

A grand total of two seconds went by with Sherlock’s mind racing a million miles an hour and John blinking slowly.

“I have no words, Sherlock.” The doctor’s voice was neutral and he had an utterly blank face, no expression written in the lines on his face.

Giving a sheepish grin, the detective tried his hand at apologizing, “I’m so sorry, John. I thought that since a kiss would bring us here, a kiss would bring us back. I mean the last time-”

“WHAT THE FUCK.”

“Er-”

“I mean, you brought me in here without knowing how to get us out? I’m still not over that you have super powers and now you’re telling me that we can’t get out? Jesus, Sherlock. Why the fuck would you do that?! You’re such a bloody fucking idiot. And you would just do this randomly? You couldn’t have warned me? Oh my fucking god.”

There.

That was it.

Mycroft was right.

A hollowness engulfed him. The sinking feeling in his stomach he hadn’t felt in years had come back. Sherlock should’ve known John wouldn’t accept this. Wouldn’t accept him. The detective took a small breath and leaned back, his cool composition returning, “Well, since you feel this way, I think it would be best if-”

“Shut up, Sherlock.” John growled and cut him off for the umpteenth time in the past five minutes.

The doctor grabbed the back of Sherlock’s neck roughly and yanked him down until they were nose to nose and the detective breathed in sharply through his nose. “Don’t be even more stupid than you already have been.”

John crashed his lips onto Sherlock’s, pulling the detective in to close the gap that had appeared out of nowhere. Surprise made it awkward, noses bumping into each other, the tightness a little forced. But then John tilted his head slightly to the right and sparks flew. Feeling the doctor’s teeth drag along his bottom lip, Sherlock got over the suddenness of it all and wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders to fight for dominance. Hot, wet, and messy, their tongues battled as Sherlock moved to cup John’s face.

Lips pulsing, Sherlock broke apart and moved back two centimeters to look at the doctor. John’s mouth was red and swollen, lips parted slightly and shiny with saliva. Before the detective could say or do anything, his doctor hissed, “Get us the fuck out of here.”

It didn’t look as menacing as he thought it might be because of all the saliva and bruised lips.

And then he closed the gap again to give one last, loving smooch and pulled away.

Smiling at Sherlock’s dazed expression and open mouth, John said, “I’m still pissed at you, you know, but let’s go and try to find a way out of here so you can prove me wrong.”

The detective regained his posture and reached out to grab John’s hand within his own gloved one. “Let me show you something first.”

“What?”

He smiled and looked down the forest trail, “Mind Palace.”

\--

“Hold up.” John stopped in the middle of the path, halting just before the trees cleared from a forest into grass.

Sherlock felt the tug on his hand and turned, concern written in his face.

“Is that it?” The doctor pointed ahead.

The worry faded and he smiled at John, “Yes it is.”

John narrowed his eyes. “Lichtenstein Castle, really?” He turned to look at Sherlock and gave a breathy laugh through his nose.

“What?”

“That,” The doctor pointed at the stone palace in front of them, “is the Lichtenstein Castle in Germany.”

Sherlock cocked his head slightly, “John, that’s my Mind Palace.”

“Well your Mind Palace has taken the form of Lichtenstein.” Grinning, John trudged towards the massive stone structure, pulling Sherlock along with him by the hand.

Still a bit confused as to why his palace would be Germany, the detective allowed himself to be dragged down the path, through the grass, across the bridge, and towards the entrance of his castle while John rambled on about ‘wanting to see the inside’ or whatever.

Sherlock almost ran into John. He had stopped again.

“This is amazing, Sherlock.” He whispered.

“It’s my Mind Palace.” The detective said softly back, squeezing John’s fingers gently.

“Can we go in?”

“John,” Sherlock said curtly, “are you daft? Of course we can go in. This _is_ my Mind Palace.” And with that he set his right hand on the handle and pushed one of the double doors open with no struggle.

“Wow.” John breathed out in awe as he stepped hesitantly into the grand foyer.

A tiered chandelier hung magnificently overhead, sparkling in the sunlight that shone through the windows on every wall. The coolness of the Italian marble below their feet didn’t invite aloofness, but rather a tranquil state of mind. The detective saw John look up and all around, finally placing his eyes on the enormous staircase in front of them. Between the stairs and them stood a small but elegant wooden table, white lilies in a vase on top.

“Wow.” He said again, as if afraid to touch anything for fear it might break.

“It’s not delicate, John,” Sherlock said, “it’s a stone castle and my Mind Palace-”

“Yes, Sherlock, you’ve said that many times already, I know it’s your Mind Palace.” John spoke absentmindedly, his eyes darting around.

The detective huffed a breath of annoyance and held his doctor’s hand as John continued to soak in the wonder that was Sherlock’s Mind Palace.

“Are you done inspecting the foyer yet? There’s many more in the rooms, you know.”

“You’re going to show me?” John looked bewildered for some absurd reason.

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and this time it was his turn to drag his doctor along.

\--

They were in the east wing. Upstairs, in some random room. John seemed to want to inspect everything in Sherlock’s Mind Palace so he had run into the first room they saw. A reading room, medium sized, not too big, not to small, with bookshelves covering three of the four walls. Light streamed in from two large windows on the fourth wall, along with the six lamps that hung from the ceiling.

Three dark wood tables with four chairs to match each were planted on top of a ruby red carpet. The middle table held piles of newspapers, each depicting the headline of a case Sherlock had solved. Boxes littered the floor, the contents disorganized and messy, just like their creator.

Countless books came in all shapes and sizes, ranging from incomplete sets of encyclopedias to Grimm’s fairytales in four different languages to battered old chemistry textbooks from the eighteen hundreds.

The detective sat next to the window, looking out at the trees and being bored out of his mind while his doctor rummaged through a box of notebooks full of Sherlock’s thoughts on the periodic table. This ‘trying to organize’ concept John had was definitely _not_ going well.

Flipping through a cheap, red coloured journal with Sherlock’s scrawl all over it, John suddenly stopped and stooped down from the chair he was sitting at to pick up a loose piece of paper that had fallen out.

“Sherlock,” The detective turned around to look at John, “what’s this?”

John held up a small, square piece of paper. A crème coloured piece of paper. Folded in half with one crease. Probably writing on the inside.

Shit.

Sherlock face held no emotion but his heart was hammering inside his chest, “That’s nothing, John,” he said calmly, “I’ll just take it and-”

Smiling slyly, John held it back as the detective reached his hand out to take the note.

“Nuh uh. Sorry, not today, love.” He teased, “I want to have a look first.”

“John, please.” Sherlock felt his breath getting caught in his throat. That was not supposed to be in there. No, that was not supposed to be in there at all.

“You okay?” The doctor’s eyebrows knit together in concern but he still withheld the note.

“Please, the paper.”

Without replying, John gave one last worrying look towards Sherlock and unfolded the paper.

Three words written in neat, crisp script. No, not just words though.

One name with three words.

And some numbers.

_Sherrinford Gerald Holmes_

_1982-1990_

“Who’s Sherrinford?”

The doctor looked up and Sherlock couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. By god, he couldn’t breathe. Sherlock Holmes tried to breathe. He still couldn’t. His lungs were on fire, catching the flames and racing through his veins to burn him to a crisp. Everything…everything was spinning. The only thing he could see was that name. _That name._  

“Sherlock,” John’s voice seemed far away, “ _Sherlock._ ”

“Oh my god, Sherlock.” The detective saw the doctor standing up from the corner of his eye. John was getting closer and closer, his form getting larger and larger. Why?

Sherlock Holmes felt wetness. On his face. Why was there water on his face? Why couldn’t he breathe? Why couldn’t he see? A fuzzy outline of someone was in front of him, a black smudge in his vision that blocked the light.

He felt them but didn’t register them. Two strong, warm arms wrapping around him. His face automatically turning and burying itself into someone’s soft jumper. Words being said that were just white noise. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t…

Nothing was real, nothing was happening. Blotches of color in front of him and blurriness and Sherrinford. Like a mantra, repeating, _Sherrinford, Sherrinford, Sherrinford._ Over and over again. _Sherrinford, Sherrinford, Sherrinford._

The single name was swarming through his head, buzzing around like bees. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he could not.

This had never happened before. Why was it happening now? Why? Why now? _Why?_ Water, wet, down his face.

_Sherrinford, Sherrinford, Sherrinford._

 

Breathe. Can’t breathe.

_I feel like I’m dying._

 

Need…need…

 

Breathe.

_Sherlock? Sherlock!_

 

Nothing is real.

_Sherrinford._

 

 

 

Sherlock let himself drift off into darkness.

\--

He blinked his eyes open.

“You okay?” John spoke quietly the moment he felt Sherlock’s head shift.

The detective said nothing, but closed his eyes again and breathed in the scent of John’s warm, wool jumper. Hands roamed gently through his hair, combing and smoothing, willing Sherlock back to sleep. Being the understanding person he was, John didn’t try to talk again, he simply sat there on the leather sofa with Sherlock’s head in his lap and tried to soothe the tired detective.

Every once in a while the doctor would lean over and press and delicate kiss to the curly, black hair. He watched the sun get lower and lower through the window.

John felt Sherlock shift again. He saw Sherlock look up past his face and out the window at the setting sun.

“You okay?” He asked again.

Sherlock blinked and he said slowly, “John, how long was I out?”

“Few hours.” John said, still running delicate fingers through his curly hair.

“What happened?” He murmured into John’s chest but didn’t move.

The doctor chuckled softly and dropped a kiss to the top of his head as Sherlock smiled in pleasure.

“You collapsed. Brought you here. Is that alright?”

“Collapsed?” His eyes snapped open.

“Yeah, Sherlock. You should’ve told me you get panic attacks.”

“What did I collapse from?”

“Er, a piece of paper,” John said as gently as possible, “With the name ‘Sherrinford’ on it. Was he a relative?”

“Somewhat.” Sherlock closed his eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Alright.”

They stayed there for a few moments, until John mustered up the courage to break the silence.

“Sun’s down.” He said, looking out the window, “What are we gonna do?”

“There’s a bedroom upstairs on the right, food’s in the kitchen.” Sherlock muttered, still refusing to move.

“Well I can’t move with you on top of me so what are we going to do?”

The detective groaned loudly into John’s jumper and the doctor smiled fondly. Sherlock shot his left hand out and groped around at the air until he found the coffee table. Opening the drawer that John hadn’t noticed before without opening his eyes (or lifting his head from John’s chest), Sherlock reached in and pulled out a pastry box.

“What’s in that?” John said when Sherlock shoved the box in his face.

“Are you daft, John? It’s a pastry box, make a suitable deduction as to what’s in it.” His muffled voice said.

“How long has that been in there?”

“I have no idea.”

He tentatively opened the box and his mouth involuntarily watered when the smell of buttery croissants and stuffed doughnuts filled his nose.

“Are you sure they’re not mouldy?” He only asked to be the doctor he was. They both knew he was going to eat them no matter how much bacteria was on them.

“Jam.”

“Huh?”

“Some of them are filled with jam.”

John ate three pastries before breathing.

With a full stomach and artificial-fruit-flavored breath, he placed a kiss atop Sherlock’s head.

“Sleep here?” The detective mumbled.

“Sure.”

Sherlock was soft and warm and the weight on John was comfortable. The doctor shifted a bit lower on the sofa to rest his head and chewed another pastry. Maybe they didn’t need to find a way out just yet.

\--

John woke to a pair of eyes whose colour was ever changing.

“Morning.” He murmured, stifling a yawn.

Sun streamed through the windows and illuminated the sitting room, dousing it in warmth.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “You’re disgusting, John.” He said as he leaned forward to peck the doctor on the lips.

“Mm?” John said, trying to blink away the morning drowsiness.

“You didn’t brush your teeth last night.”

 The doctor leaned forward and Sherlock’s words contradicted his actions as he kissed John back sweetly. “Neither did you.”

“I didn’t eat anything.”

Chuckling, John ran his fingers through the detective’s hair as Sherlock plopped back down onto his chest. They had spent the whole night like that and it was a wonder John wasn’t all numb.

“Sherlock? Where are we?” He looked around.

“John,” The detective said slowly, “this is my mind, remember?”

“What?”

Sherlock cocked his head, “Do you remember what happened yesterday?”

“I came back from the surgery early and we ate pasta,” John smiled, “I kissed you.” His smile got wider, “You kissed me.”

“And after that?”

“Seriously, Sherlock. Where are we?” The doctor’s face got all serious.

“John.” Sherlock got up off of his flatmate and stood next to the sofa, looking down on the doctor, “Do you remember?”

“Remember what?”

Sherlock stayed silent and his face betrayed no emotion he felt.

“Sherlock,” John sat up and demanded, “Did you bring me out here for a case?”

He made a split second decision.

“Yes.”

“Oh, god.”

“I drugged you last night with the food and brought you out here. You’ve actually been sleeping for two days.”

“ _Jesus Christ_ , Sherlock.” John gave a resigned sigh. “What’s the case?”

“I need you to listen carefully to me.” He continued to stand tall, “We are in the middle of nowhere and there is no one around us. We need to get back to London and Baker Street. We need to find a way out of here.”

“What?” The doctor’s eyes snapped up.

“Listen again, John. There is no one even remotely close to us. We are alone. There are castles placed strategically around the land but all of them are deserted. We need to find a way out.”

“Where the fuck are we.” His voice was low and his eyes were heavy.

“A stretch of land approximately the size of a large country.”

“I thought you said this was for a case!”

“An experiment, actually.”

“John?”

“John, you should consider breathing.”

“John.”

“John, you need to breathe.”

“Just take deep, calming breaths now.”

“We’re both alright and everything is going to be fine.”

“John?”

John punched him.

\--

“I don’t even have my bloody phone!”

The doctor stormed around the sitting room as sunlight poured brightly in from the window as the detective held a tissue to his bleeding cheek.

“I didn’t even know there was just a deserted country with castles placed randomly everywhere!” John huffed and kept pacing heavily.

Sherlock stayed quiet, worried that he might antagonize the already-furious John.

“I need a shower.” The doctor announced suddenly. He walked out of the sitting room.

The detective rolled his eyes and counted down the seconds.

3, 2, 1. “Where’s the loo?” John popped his head back into the room.

“Down the hall behind the stairs, go through the third door on your right and follow the left wall to the very back of the room.”

John nodded and muttered to himself, “Behind the stairs, third door on the right, left wall.”

Sherlock sighed in relief as his flatmate left the room. He could now think in peace.

First order of business: Why did John forget? How could he have forgotten? Finding out your…boyfriend? Or were they still flatmates? Anyways, finding out your [            ] could transport you into their mind with a kiss wasn’t something people normally forgot.

Something tapped on the window.

The detective whipped his head around and ignored the stinging of the cut as he narrowed his eyes at the glass. It was one, small, tiny tap that Sherlock could’ve imagined.

Sherlock turned back around.

He bit his lip in concentration and tried to solve this puzzle. How? How, how, how? There was something amiss, something gone wrong. Though he had deleted the way out of his mind, Sherlock had _never_ dared to touch the memories of when Victor Trevor had stood where John stood now. But he didn’t dare revisit those days that were recorded in books scattered around his Mind Palace.

(He heard the water turn on twelve rooms down.)

Absentmindedly, the detective disregarded the bloodied tissue and slipped his hand into his pocket. The cold of a smooth, metal object touched his fingertips and Sherlock recoiled in surprise.

It was Mycroft’s ring.

Reaching back down, Sherlock pulled the thick ring out and turned the cold around in his palm. Shiny and gold, Mycroft took great care of this ring. The younger Holmes smiled sadly at the memory of Mycroft’s departed wife.

She was wonderful. Her name was Elizabeth. Elizabeth Campbell. They called her Lizzie for short. Nothing out of the ordinary. Perfectly ordinary in fact. But she was wonderful. The only lady Sherlock had ever approved of for his brother.

Sherlock’s smile quivered the barest bit when the day of her funeral day resurfaced in his mind.

He didn’t want to think about that. Not now. Not when John was here. Not yet.

So he went back to thinking about why and how John had forgotten. He furrowed his eyebrows and subconsciously put the ring back in his pocket, the metal now warm from his hands. Steepling his fingers and tapping his forefingers against his lips, Sherlock took a deep breath.

 _Think,_ he told himself. _Think._

Though those delicate remembrances of Trevor were kept under lock and key, Sherlock knew the basics of what happened.

Trevor was in his mind for a total of 34.66 hours and Sherlock had kissed him a total of 23 times. (True, they had snogged countless times while in his mind but Sherlock wasn’t counting those.) He was never here for more than a few hours and so the sun had still been high in the sky when Trevor left.

John had stayed long past sun down.

Sherlock set his jaw and looked at nothing.

The water from John’s shower shut down and some clattering could be heard.

Sherlock prepared himself for another round of yelling from his flatmate when he came back in and he huffed. Why had he deleted how to get out of his mind?

\--

“Right.” John looked at Sherlock with a head full of wet hair. “We need to get moving.”

“Moving?”

“Yes, moving.”

“Why?”

“Because we need to get the fuck out of here, that’s why.”

“And moving will help…how?”

“Sherlock, two things.” John put one hand on his hip, “One, I was a bloody soldier in Afghanistan so maybe I know a bit more about getting out of deserted places than you. Two, there is no one that is going to save us so we have to get moving or we’ll die.”

Sherlock cocked his head innocently and said, “Sounds reasonable.”

John glared at him and marched out of the sitting room without so much as a backwards glance.

“Where are you going?” The detective yelled after him, “You aren’t just going to walk out, are you?”

“I bloody am!” John shouted back and it sounded like he was already in the foyer.

Sherlock sighed and hurried after his flatmate. (Boyfriend? Partner? He still didn’t know.)

\--

The detective smiled smugly and John scowled as he stuffed a duffel bag with the necessary supplies to survival he had forgotten. Necessary supplies like food, water, first aid kit, and some clothes they had found in an abandoned bedroom that seemed to only fit Sherlock. Some doctor he was.

\--

John stepped one foot out of the castle and as the before-noon sun hit his face, it illuminated his pout with golden light and he looked like a grumpy fairy to Sherlock. The detective tried kissing it away, and though it did soften him a bit, the kissing was not able to take away the creases in John’s forehead which made Sherlock almost smile.

Each holding a bag, the detective watched as his flatmate took in his surroundings.

(How could he not remember?)

“So how are we going to do this? Walk? Are there any bicycles?”

“We’ll take the car.”

“Car?!” John dropped his bag and his jaw fell with it.

And then he was mad.

“What the fuck? You couldn’t have told me this before?”

Sherlock’s flatmate huffed and went back into the castle to get more survival supplies.

The detective was surprised he didn’t have more questions for someone who was told he was in an abandoned stretch of land with only his flatmate. And he didn’t even want to know where in the world he was.

Sherlock smirked before following John inside. This was going to go easier than expected.

\--

They were finally moving as John had suggested they do three hours ago. Sherlock was driving because he was the only one of the pair that knew how. They had driven from the back of the castle onto a paved, but not very well paved road and were following a map that had come with the car to another castle that looked like it was in the middle of nowhere to John.

Then five hours on the road and sixty eight kilometers away from the next castle the car ran out of gas.

Yelling ensued.

John got red in the face and kicked the car’s tire. That didn’t help at all.

They got out and John glared at the sun for setting so quickly.

Sherlock remarked that it had been setting for a few minutes now and if John had bothered to look out the window instead of screaming, he’d have seen that.

John glared at him.

They found a nice spot of grass in the middle of an open field and started to settle down for the night. It felt like they were in the middle of farmland. Stars were thrown across the inky night sky and constellations filled their eyes.

“John?”

“Yeah, Sherlock?”

“Tell me the following words tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“I need you to.”

“Okay.”

“Mind Palace. Gold. Dog.”

“Er…okay.”

“Goodnight, John.”

“Night, Sherlock.”

Then John had turned to give the detective a small kiss before slotting himself at Sherlock’s side for the rest of the night.

\--

“Mind Palace, gold, dog.” John flicked Sherlock’s nose. “Wake up, sleepy head. It’s already around eleven, I think. Mind Palace, gold, dog.”

Sherlock blinked his eyes open and his flatmate’s face was over his.

“Mind Palace, gold, dog.”

The detective furrowed his eyebrows.

“I nearly forgot it, you know.” John said, sitting back and leaving Sherlock to try and block out the blinding sunlight that was shining in his face.

Then the detective registered the words and had to force himself not to sigh with relief and raise questions.

They walked 23 kilometers and stopped for lots of breaks that day.

\--

They found another nice, grassy patch to stay for the night and then John got the idea of making a fire. So he did. The warmth was comforting, but the night wasn’t particularly cold.

It was the same as the previous night. Countless stars illuminated the dark, cloudless sky, so much so that light wasn’t even needed to see. Smoke from the fire rose up and if there was a passerby, they would think that these two men were having the time of their lives on a perfect camping trip. True, they were actually completely alone and Sherlock wouldn’t be caught dead on a camping trip, but still, it was nice.

That’s when the wolves attacked.

When everything was almost perfect, John was playing with the hairs on his head and Sherlock had thrown himself lazily across the doctor’s lap.

Eight of them. Seven surrounding them and the fire, they had approached without either John or Sherlock noticing. Growling their low, menacing growls, the wolves had saliva dripping from their mouths. They were huge, all of them at least as tall as John.

Shiny, black, fur made them blend in seamlessly with the darkness of the night and strong, powerful legs could be seen even from a distance.

Sherlock sat up quickly, wide eyed, and grabbed John’s hand. They gripped each other tightly.

The eighth was larger, it stood proudly and look down on the detective and his doctor. The other seven seemed to move apart and create a pathway for the leader when it approached, coming in opposite of Sherlock and John. The only thing separating them from it was the mediocre fire.

“Sherlock,” John hissed, trembling, “What do we do?”

“Don’t move.”

“We’ll get eaten.”

“We’ll get eaten if we do move.”

“Then we’ve got nothing to lose.”

John lurched forwards with one swift movement and letting go of Sherlock’s hand, he whipped a stick from the fire and made it a torch, flailing it around to ward off the wolves.

They growled again.

The doctor breathed hard, and turned around to look at Sherlock.

Their eyes locked for half a second.

No. No, he couldn’t. The detective knew but he couldn’t comprehend.

John turned away and ran up to the nearest wolf and smashed its head with the torch. It howled in pain and whimpered while the rest of the pack angled their whole bodies towards John with low growls and a great thirst for blood.

Then Sherlock saw.

Saw their eyes.

“John! Stop!”

It was the eyes, always the eyes.

Sherlock took it all in in a heartbeat. The one nearest to him on the right had pale, aquamarine eyes, icily striking that demanded aristocratic class. The one on his left was with stormy, grey eyes. Right now they were filled with anger, fury, but gentleness lied underneath. And then candy-apple, green eyes that he used to see every day for eight years until those green eyes faded and were buried with his brother’s body ten feet into the ground.

Hazel eyes that have flecks of gold in them that he always used to admire and he still did. Soft violet eyes that struck everyone who saw them with awe.

Familiar, amber eyes.

A pair of sweet, chestnut ones.

And the leader of the pack. Eyes that were a deep, dark indigo. They were like the bottom of the ocean, so dark that from afar they seemed to be brown until you were three centimeters away.

John’s eyes were a deep, dark indigo. Like the hidden depths of the sea, they were so dark that from afar they looked to be brown until Sherlock was right up in his face.

The eyes were piercing and it seemed that one look from them could kill you.

The nanosecond passed by and Sherlock screamed, “NO! STOP!”

They charged.

“STOP!”

Sherlock threw himself in front of John in panic just as the doctor reached a hand up to push the detective back, knowing exactly what Sherlock was thinking before he had done it.

Blood, screaming, roaring.

He couldn’t see anything but black blurs and couldn’t hear anything but John’s screams and couldn’t feel anything but the hard dirt slamming into his face and he couldn’t taste anything but metal in his mouth and he couldn’t smell anything but sweet blood and Sherlock couldn’t think. Oh, god, he couldn’t think.

“John…” He tried to say.

“John.”

_John._

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picture References: http://myskybison.tumblr.com/momentsintime


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